Resident Evil: Future Shock
by Steve Gershwin
Summary: This time the residency is in space. An eleven-man U.S. Army squadron is sent to the moon to find out why the only transmission Earth has received from it in a week has been an unintelligible, ten-second message. They soon discover why.
1. Surviving the Horror

**RESIDENT EVIL: FUTURE SHOCK**  
Chapter 1: Surviving the Horror  
  


Sergeant Freemont Lassart

Corporal Wilson Gammon (second-in-command)
Private First Class Andrew Watchreid (strategist)

Private First Class William Patton (soldier)
Private Sloan "Stymie" Hackson (soldier)

Private Kyle Hedgewick (pilot)
Private Jane Quigg (nurse)

Private Haley Ysborne (sharpshooter)
Ed Payton (sharpshooter)

Private Flora Lamont (communications)
Civilian Benson Coldwart (negotiations)
  
  
I feel since everyone else is doing this, I'll have to as well. Basically, the whole concept of Resident Evil, and a lot of the plot points taken from this story, have been directly grabbed from the Resident Evil series. The characters I created, but the whole concept, and the title 'Resident Evil', belong to Capcom Games. And, of course, legally, I can't accept money for doing any of this unless directly licensed from Capcom Games and, since I'm not, well.... There goes that idea. This isn't a Capcom-approved fanfic, either. Wait for five minutes to let simmer, serve, and enjoy.  
  


Will sat in the uncomfortable chair as he watched what looked like stars float by the windowpane to his left. He couldn't really tell. They could have been burning asteroids; this far away from the atmosphere of Earth, anything was possible. The twelve-man shuttle had just slowed down to a comfortable speed of about three hundred kilometers per hour, maybe a little more. But Will was never a good judge of speeds, especially in space. As he watched, he could see his brown hair and somewhat-square jaw reflected back at him.  
  
They had exited Earth's atmosphere exactly--he checked his watch--nine hours and forty-eight minutes ago, and he'd been sitting almost the whole time. He was aching to get off his butt, walk around, do a little stretching.  
  
He wasn't too worried about being in space. He'd been in space before; heck, that was his job. He and the other ten special tactics members were trained for space operations. But, after exploration had pretty much burned itself out, there really wasn't anything to do. No supervising the construction or coordination of space stations on Mars or Venus. No otherworldly skirmishes. And those space pirates hadn't shown their faces for months now.  
  
But then, eleven hours ago, Earth had gotten a transmission from the moon. It almost seemed like a 'Houston, we have a problem' type of transmission, but for some reason, the transmission had been delayed for days, almost a week.  
  
Scientists on the moon--called Luna--had told the people back on Earth that transmissions would be shut down for a little while. It turned out that the planets around the sun were in such a position that satellites would have to send signals around it (what a large beast). So, as much as they didn't like it, they had to dedicate the moon's satellites to the task of bouncing signals from Venus around the sun. All of the satellites. Especially with the political battles fighting for territory on Venus, half of the satellites went to cover news stories on that problem alone. Since there was no shipping that needed to be done to or from the moon, everything seemed normal. No transmissions, no problem. It was expected. But what wasn't expected was the garbled message Earth had received when the sun passed by. It was unintelligible, seemed apparently like some sort of hoarse moaning. Even amplified, there were no spoken words.  
  
So here Will found himself aboard this ship--the Goliath, as it was called--in an army of eleven soldiers that was being sent in to investigate why such a strange message was sent... and why no additional transmissions had followed, even after hailing. Will hated it when the government assumed siege. Or at least that's what it looked like the government was assuming by the looks of the riot gear and heavy artillery weapons they were taking with them.  
  
He looked over at Edward Payton, sitting in a seat a couple of rows in front of him, green as a pale patch of moss, trying to hold whatever was fighting against his gag reflexes to get out. Will chuckled. Payton always got sick on the way up. It was a wonder he got through training. But, then again, he was one of the better marksmen the militia had to offer. If there indeed _were_ a siege, Payton would be invaluable.  
  
Will could hear Sloan "Stymie" Hackson behind him as he leaned forward to tap Will on the shoulder. "Hey, Will," he said. "I haven't heard anything from you. What do you think of all this siege stuff they're probably thinking?" Stymie must have gotten the same idea that Will had, most likely from the gear they were taking with them.  
  
Stymie was a typical thrill-seeker: quickly amused and loved the thrill of battle whenever death was near. He got into the thick of things, was usually the first to jump in with reckless abandon and no second thoughts. And he was good at it.  
  
Will turned his body as much as he could while still held in the seat. He peered at Stymie through the small crack between his seatback and the window. Stymie's long, blond hair was tied back into a ponytail, and his scruffy face hadn't been shaved in a few days. "Not much," he said, answering Stymie's question. "I'd hate to say it, but I think we're just getting a free ride to the moon, and that's all."  
  
"Yeah, I thought so. It's always like you to assume the least fun scenario. I mean, come on. A lot can happen in a week!"  
  
A slight smile cracked Will's usual Poker face. "Sorry about that. I'm just an optimist."  
  
The sound of a door slamming open! Will turned forward as Stymie lifted his head to peer above the line of seats. Mission Sergeant Freemont Lassart entered through the cockpit door after having given their pilot, Kyle Hedgewick, instructions on where to land, and probably had made a few attempts at hailing anybody on the moon.  
  
"Listen up, people," Lassart started, in a stance that left both hands held together behind his back and his legs spread apart at shoulder length. Will heard that Lassart liked to start his briefing the same way every time, just like in the movies, but this was the first mission in which he'd been under Lassart's command. "Here's the situation. We haven't heard anything except for one unintelligible or garbled message from Luna since July 7, 2099." He stopped and looked over the crowd in front of him. Will assumed he was pausing for effect, but thought up until now that only comedians would do that. He wouldn't put it past Lassart.  
  
"I have here that message." Lassart pulled his right hand out from behind his back and in it was a handheld tape recorder/player. "What you are listening for is the sound of a moan, followed by something else which we haven't figured out yet." Will assumed there was a tape already queued inside and was proven correct when Lassart promptly pressed the play button.  
  
At first, nothing. It was dead silence aside from some tape hiss, which was probably static or just air (it was a live recording, so there was no doctoring or filtering). A few seconds went by, and still nothing. Was this all there was? Where was the--  
  
Suddenly, it came. At first, it was quiet, but then it grew louder. It sounded human, and Will wondered what kind of human could make such a hoarse moan. Then... what was that, the sound of eating? Lips smacking together? A soft click, and the transmission ended. Lassart pressed the stop button and lowered the recorder/player behind his back.  
  
He continued. "We assume that the transmission was made hastily, most likely unintentionally. That was July 7. The date is now July 15. That's seven-and-a-half days without a peep. Now, the sun was in such a position that all of Luna's transmission satellites had to be dedicated for other uses, and that accounts for one week's worth of silence. Still, we have not been able to account for the extra seven hours of silence, and for a moon that has been unable to broadcast and has had no outgoing or incoming shipments for a week, that is very unusual.  
  
"We are assuming nothing--"  
  
"That's why we were equipped for a siege," Stymie added, and caught the attention of Lassart.  
  
"Is something funny, Private Hackson?" Lassart asked with a slight nod of the chin. Will noticed that, ever since the mission began, Lassart and Stymie hadn't exactly been best of friends... and it had only been less than ten hours.  
  
All eyes were on Stymie, but, without skipping a beat, he said, "I was just remarking, sir, that it's unusual that we're assuming nothing, yet we've been equipped to deal with riots and sieges."  
  
Lassart breathed out heavily, his nose whistling. "Hmm," he grunted. "It's not up to us to tell the government what they assume and what they let us take with them. Just thank Uncle Sam that we're taking the powerful stuff." He regained his briefing mode of speech, continuing with the hopefully short talk. Will was anticipating getting on the planet, and he was sure Stymie was itching to blow something up. "Anyway, to continue, we are to assume nothing is happening. But we are to be prepared for the worst. I want everyone equipped with goggles and rifles. If we are unsuccessful in hailing anybody on Luna, we won't know what's going on. Even if we do, we're going to be doing a little recon, so don't think we're just going to turn back around at the first sign of good news.  
  
"You're probably wondering why you're in such an unusual bunch, why most of you had never met until you boarded this rocket. You have been specially selected for this mission, based on your skills and social situation."  
  
"Social situation?" Private Haley Ysborne asked, and Will could detect a little inquisitiveness in her tone.  
  
"Social situation. You'll notice not many people from your own platoon are here on this mission. This is a mixed platoon here today, made up from selections. You were selected because you didn't know anybody. In a mission this delicate, you can never be sure. If things are the way we aboard this ship have been thinking they are, we may not be sure who will be coming back and who won't. I'm sorry to say this, in a way, but you've been selected because you don't know anybody. You have no family, no friends, no pets, no dependants--"  
  
"Correction, sir," Stymie said. "I have a houseplant."  
  
Lassart ignored his comment, probably to Stymie's advantage, and continued. "Simply put, you will not be missed." He paused. "Now, to get on with our briefing, we will be landing in the city of New Atlanta, in the Washington Standard Time Zone, just above the seventieth meridian. Our landing is scheduled for three minutes from now, so I want everyone suited up the second we touch ground. We're a go in exactly three minutes and five seconds." He pointed to a circled city on a large atlas pasted on the front of the passenger's cabin of the ship that Will somehow hadn't noticed until then. "That is, of course, the closest military base to the American embassy on the moon, the closest place we can land without doing it on the embassy's lawn. We will then spread out and cover the hangar bay in which we land, establish a perimeter, make sure the bay--and then the base--is ours. The first sign that this is not a hostile situation, we return to the ship and begin recon procedures. If it is, we'll be happy that we established this perimeter. And, plus, if it is hostile, the most likely place the situation will be based is in that embassy. That's where our concern is.  
  
"In most situations, it's best to get all civilians out of the way. Unfortunately, if the entire moon isn't responding, it's most likely that this hostile situation is involving everyone on it, and an evacuation of civilians of that scale is simply out of the question. There is also the possibility that, since all the master transmitters on the moon are stationed at that military base, the problem may not have spread past it. But it's not likely, and we're not assuming that. That's why this will be a quick in-and-out procedure.  
  
"People, we're dealing with mostly unknown factors. We need to play this professionally and with any skill we can. When we've established that perimeter, we'll see what we're dealing with. Questions?" No one responded, even though Lassart gave a full ten seconds. He checked his watch, then looked back up. "Everybody, out of your seats. Let's move and good luck." His final words spoken, he retreated into the cockpit. Those seemed like a fitting phrase to engrave on a tombstone and Will determined then and there that those words were what he wanted his own tombstone to say. 'His sergeant wished him luck.' Perfect.  
  
Will didn't even know with whom he was about to die. Aside from Stymie and Ed Payton, who were both in his original platoon, he had just met these people today. He looked them over, really only knowing their ranks and nothing more. Kyle Hedgewick was obviously the pilot, and a good one, Will had heard. He knew that Haley Ysborne was a sharpshooter, just like Ed. Jane Quigg was the military doctor. She specialized in bone fractures and gunshot wounds, if that held any promise for their mission. Andrew Watchreid was their military strategist, and was the only one among them that was more mechanical than human, having had three quarters of his body replaced after being caught in a landmine explosion. Flora Lamont was their communications engineer, and was sent on the mission mostly in case the reason why transmissions hadn't resumed yet wasn't obvious. Wilson Gammon was a second-in-command under Lassart, but mostly was there to shoot things and lift other, heavier things. Fat Benson Coldwart was the only civilian on this mission, an expert hostage negotiator, apparently the prodigal son as far as it went with negotiations, which is why the military hadn't gone in-house for their negotiator. It was a wonder why Coldwart's social skills were evidently not up to par. Rounding out the eleven-person troop were Will and Stymie, nothing more than the hitters and shooters, basic soldier but with a knack and proven track-record for cutting through enemy lines.  
  
Eleven people. That was it. Against what could be insurmountable and unknown odds, the American nation had sent eleven people.  
  
  
  
Stymie was first in line to exit the Goliath. He loved it, but he was sure that the sergeant hated him and that was why he was first in line but he didn't care about what Lassart thought of him, oh no. If there _were_ a siege, and he was pretty sure there were, he was the point man and that was just the way he liked things. No fuss, no muss. Just shooting at whatever shot at him. He imagined that the whole landscape would be teeming with terrorists because these siege scenarios usually did. Pirates--the ones who usually did these sieges--always had hundreds and hundreds of armed crazies, although they'd soon realize that no one was crazier or more off-the-wall than Stymie.  
  
Everyone was suited up and armed to the hilt except for their negotiator, Coldwart, who was going to stay behind with the ship and the communicator--Lamont?--whatever her name was.  
  
He readied his gun by chambering a bullet, waiting for the command to open door and jump out, firing into the darkness at the first sign of opposition fire. If there wasn't any opposition fire, that meant that the terrorists didn't know they were here, which was more than likely since they weren't expecting an antiterrorist platoon this soon but, hey, no one promised it would be fun right from the first minute.  
  
Behind him, he could hear Ed upchuck, and he let out a silent laugh as he heard Lassart yell, "Not on my boot, Private!" And then the magic words came: "It's go time! Move it!" The sergeant had spoken and Stymie slammed his fist on the button. The door raised open in a low, quick hum and he rushed out in a sudden sprint, exiting and taking his position at the right side of the disembarking ramp, training his gun around the area and looking for snipers. Ysborne, right behind him, took the position on the left side of the ramp and did the same. Both of them were equipped with night vision and Ysborne had an additional sniper's scope, and so they could spot even the most camouflaged of snipers but there didn't seem to be any. Stymie took the area in, a huge clearing, like a square with very high catwalks, which made sense since this was a hangar bay. It was covered completely with a reinforced canopy, so no outside space elements could contaminate the area. It was conditioned for humans, and breathable air was routinely pumped into the area, and that was why they hadn't bothered to wear their full space uniforms including the bulky and cumbersome helmets. It was just a huge square clearing they were in, very dark as the lights had been shut off for some reason or another, and he couldn't see much but randomly strewn boxes lying about the area and ridged, concrete walls towering upward with the catwalks along the top.  
  
After Ysborne came Payton, who should have been on the other side of this ramp with Ysborne, watching the catwalks since he was the other sharpshooter, but, hey. Lassart chose Stymie because he got on the sergeant's nerves, and that made Stymie want to smile wider.  
  
Stymie scoured the catwalks with goggles that wrapped around his head like a hungry octopus tentacle and they chaffed his skin, but he ignored it and scanned the area, his gun following his gaze, slowly and methodically looking for anyone and--  
  
"Sergeant!" he screamed as the last of the platoon aside from the communication chick and Coldwart, filed out of the ship and ran for cover. "No one's out here! It's dead!"  
  
He assumed Lassart was waiting and, having covered the one side, moved around to the other side of the ship, slowly looking as he did. He watched the ground and the catwalks, but no one was out there and, he assumed, no one was watching. The outer doors had been covered by the rest of the platoon or they would have heard signs of something and, in fact, the whole darkened area sounded so much like a ghost town that he half expected to run into a tumbleweed being blown by a gust of wind. He finished the semicircle, meeting with Ysborne halfway at the other side of the Goliath.  
  
"You're right, private," Lassart admitted (a first--that was weird), and then said, "Platoon, gather at the ship--"  
  
"Sergeant, I think you ought to look at this!" Hedgewick bellowed--or, at least, it sounded like Hedgewick.  
  
"Gammon, Patton, with me!" Lassart barked with such foul breath that Stymie thought he could smell it from halfway across the bay. "The rest of you, keep covering your areas!" Lassart broke into a slow jog with Gammon and Will following behind him. Stymie looked up and could see Ed watching out for enemy fire, doing some funky thing with his gun that he must have been taught in sharpshooter school and it looked cool, so Stymie would make it a point to ask him what he was doing once this thing was over.  
  
"Holy--"  
  
  
  
"--mother of Pearl!" Will bellowed as he approached the rotting thing lying just under the darkened passageway that no doubt connected the bay with the rest of the compound. He caught sight of it as he approached, his goggles showing it in green hue. "What the--?" He cut himself off as he covered his mouth with one gloved hand, catching the stench.  
  
It was a rotting carcass, a human at some point in time. The head had been ground into some sort of red, bloody pulp, and the legs and arms had met the same fate. Well, he had to assume so much since they were all missing. The stomach had been torn open, snaking coils of intestines and splattered mush hanging about. He couldn't even tell the gender of the person; the body had been mangled so much.  
  
"We're definitely dealing with hostiles here," Lassart barked, a little too close to his ear for comfort, but he didn't care. What would do this to someone?  
  
"Should we radio back to Earth for backup, sir?" Will asked.  
  
"Yeah, or get back home," Kyle Hedgewick responded.  
  
"Shut that mouth, Private Hedgewick," Lassart responded. "You're a U.S. soldier, and we're here for a reason. Zip that chicken attitude or I'll have you in morale training."  
  
Lassart was a jerk, but he was right, Will reflected. Nobody needed to hear that kind of stuff, especially after this.  
  
Gammon stood up and asked, "What's our next move, sir?"  
  
Lassart paused, which wasn't in character. Usually he had every move calculated even before they got to it. That was one thing Will respected about the man: what Lassart lacked in social skills, he made up for in pure military brilliance. He opened up the communication channel in his suit to everyone so they could hear, and kept his voice low. "We've got this area covered," Lassart began. "We move out, down this hallway and find out where it goes. Don't make a peep until we know it's covered. If there is anybody, we shoot out the lights. They may not be able to see in the dark, but we sure can, so keep your goggles on. Once we reach the end of this passage, we'll find out our next move. If it splits, we keep tight. Patton's got schematics of the whole compound loaded into his suit, so he'll lead us out, so follow him. Patton, we need to get to the main building, so the quickest, most stealthy way is the way we go. Now, move. Patton first, then Hedgewick. Stymie, you bring up the rear."  
  
"Beautiful," Stymie responded, but on a channel only open to Will. He obviously didn't want Lassart to hear his comments, and Will chuckled.  
  
Will broke into a slow walk, carefully checking the map that now displayed as an overlay in his goggles on top of his vision. Up ahead, it showed that he had to turn left and, with a thrust of his hand in that direction, he indicated to the others behind him. He tried as hard as possible to make his footsteps as soundlessly as he could, and the old saying 'as quiet as a mouse' came to mind.  
  
Behind him, he assumed that Watchreid was listening for errant communication signals, searching for broadcasts on a myriad of channels. Nothing. Everything was silent. If these siege terrorists--however unlikely the possibility, unless that body had been spat out of a blender--were awake, they were silent. Introverted terrorists? The thought crossed his mind.  
  
Will reached the corner and snapped around it, trying to still be silent but deadly.  
  
_Like a fart,_ he thought.  
  
Nobody was around the corner, no waiting terrorists, not even a rat, and the passage was getting darker now as they had passed the source of light--a dim, overhanging lamp--a while ago.  
  
This was eerie, he noticed. This wasn't a typical siege. If it _was_ one, they would have met with opposition by now, or at least some kind of clue. Shot hostages, a ransom demand, _something_! The only thing they found was a mangled body, which looked more like a cannibal's work than a hostage taker's. Plus they were the only ship in such a large hangar. What was going on?  
  
Will looked back slightly, seeing Lassart in a greenish hue. Lassart kept looking over to his right as if half expecting a doorway to show up. Lassart had a reputation for having an uncanny ability for anticipating paths, but it was almost as if he knew the place. Will checked the map and, sure enough, a doorway just ahead of them and on their right opened up to the main compound, the mess hall, to be exact. Will snickered silently. One more point for the sergeant. That _was_ uncanny.  
  
They soon reached the door and Will positioned himself on the far side of it to leave room for Hedgewick and Lassart to reach it, the others behind them. Will pointed to it, indicating that this was their next move. Lassart nodded and raised his gun, indicating with a nod from his chin for Will to take point.  
  
Will sighed. He hated taking point, but he also hated facing the consequences of disobeying orders. He stepped in front of the door and looked at Lassart. He assumed, just like Lassart was doing, that everyone in the nine-man parade was performing a final weapons check, as if they knew that beyond this door were the terrorists. Lassart looked up and gave the nod, and Will could feel his heart surge, an electrical pulse shooting out through his body. Here goes nothing.  
  
Will kicked the door! It went flying back and he took to the left side, Hedgewick behind him and to the right! The others filed in and--  
  
No gunfire! What was this? Will was almost getting frustrated! Nothing made sense. Were the supposed terrorists playing a game with them, leading them on? Was that their plan? And that pungent aroma that now pricked his senses was growing.  
  
They were in the mess hall. It was as pitch black and comparable to a tomb as the rest of the compound had been so far. Strewn across the red-stained tables were morsels of food, bones picked clean and left bloody, just sitting on the tables. No evidence of a civilization was apparent, really, except for the tables and the serving counter. No one had used plates or utensils in what looked like _the_ big feeding frenzy, and bits of ravenously eaten food were even festering on the floor. In fact, Will had noticed, the only food seen around was meat, and it didn't look like it'd been cooked before being eaten!  
  
Lassart lowered his gun, looking almost as puzzled as Will was. The comm-link indicator lighted up, telling him that Lassart had reopened communication.  
  
"Thoughts?" Lassart asked as he looked around the platoon.  
  
Stymie filed in, pushing his way past Quigg and Gammon. "My thought is that the smell in here is vile."  
  
"Any serious thoughts?"  
  
"One, sir," Gammon spoke. He lifted his goggles out from his eyes and wiped his brow. He stayed in the door, halfway between the threshold of the mess hall and the corridor behind them. Will wasn't sure how he could turn his back on such a dark, ominous corridor in light of the strangeness here. "I have no clue what's going on, but I do know that we need to get a warning back to Lamont. She and the civilian are in the ship right now. I'd be surprised if they haven't been taken yet."  
  
"Good idea," Lassart replied. "See if you can--"  
  
A creak. Everyone heard it, as they stopped talking and looked up, as if not wanting anything at eye-level to distract them from carefully listening. Then another one.  
  
"What was--" Ysborne began, but was cut off by Lassart raising a hand to her. Where was the sound coming from? Was it anything? In the weird acoustics of this moon military station, no one was sure if the sound was coming from the mess hall, the corridor, even outside.  
  
A groan! From the corridor! Hands grabbed at Gammon, two chalk-white, rotting hands that clawed at his face! Something resembling a human--  
  
--it chewed right into Gammon's temple before Gammon could even react! Crimson fluid erupted like out a geyser, spurting from the large, torn wound, and Gammon's body fell with a loud, dull thud. The monster--man?--that had killed him lowered itself down as it... took the chunk it had grabbed and fed itself!  
  
The one named Quigg gasped. "Holy--"  
  
"Back me up! I'm going to take that sucker down!" Lassart barked and raised his weapon. The entire platoon did likewise, and as the rotting man stood up, a torn ear hanging from its mouth, and took a lurching step forward, Lassart squeezed his trigger and sent a bullet splattering into the man's eye. It went down, stumbling backward onto Gammon's twitching body and hitting the wall behind it before settling into a sitting position. A smear of blood trickled down the wall, marking its descent.  
  
"Private Quigg," Lassart barked. "How is he?"  
  
Quigg kneeled down and took a pulse reading of Gammon's neck. Her suit's glove was equipped for pulse readings, and Will could see by the look on her face that it read a dead flatline. She nodded, closing her eyes and slowly standing up. "He's gone."  
  
"Sir, if I may say so," Will started, "we need to get back to the ship. Get Lamont and the civilian, replan if we need to...."  
  
"Suggestion noted," Lassart said. "Back to the ship. Double-time it!"  
  
Stymie filed out first, followed closely by Will and then Watchreid and, after that, Will couldn't keep track of who was next. It took them about a minute to reach the dark clearing and, when they did, Will could see over Stymie's shoulder that the civilian, Coldwart, had exited the ship and was in one corner, doing what looked like taking a leak. It made him realize that the multimillion-dollar toilets aboard the ship must have been clogged again, but that was the least of his worries right now.  
  
Will approached the ship while Stymie went to grab Coldwart.  
  
_BOOM!_ Before Will could realize what was happening, he was ducking to one side as flames spewed out of the ship. The entire Goliath had been reduced to ashen, twisted metal, now just an empty shell with fire erupting from it. _Backed-up_ toilets could cause that?  
  
"What's going on here?" Stymie yelled to Will. Will backpedaled to the wall and frantically looked in all directions, searching for the terrorist with the heavy-artillery missile launcher. Nobody! What was this?  
  
_"What is going on?"_ Will asked frantically. Nothing was adding up! And now their ride home was nothing more than a strewn wreckage of melting metal and plastics!  
  
"Was Lamont on that ship?" Stymie yelled at Coldwart over the crackling fire as Coldwart struggled to zip his pants up in wide-eyed terror. Coldwart could hardly speak, and Stymie reasserted himself. "Was Lamont on the ship when it exploded?"  
  
Will looked back at the rest of the crew and saw that they were just as puke-faced as Coldwart was, trying to make sense of the unfolding situation. Now, even Lassart was confused, the first time since they'd landed! And he wasn't an easily confused man.  
  
Coldwart gagged. "Y--yeah, she was," he responded.  
  
"Great," Will said as he sidestepped toward the rest of the platoon, Stymie hauling Coldwart along behind him. "Two down in three minutes." They reached the platoon, and Will approached an openmouthed Lassart. "What next, sergeant?" he asked.  
  
"Back into the mess hall," he responded, regaining his composure. "We're going to find out what's going on."  
  


**Next time:** More of the same useless jargon you found here! And more zombies!  
  
For more fanfics of the same caliber, visit http://altmarvel.cjb.net!  
  



	2. A Slight Problem

**RESIDENT EVIL: FUTURE SHOCK**  
Chapter 2: A Slight Problem  
  


Sergeant Freemont Lassart

Corporal Wilson Gammon (second-in-command)
Private First Class Andrew Watchreid (strategist)

Private First Class William Patton (soldier)
Private Sloan "Stymie" Hackson (soldier)

Private Kyle Hedgewick (pilot)
Private Jane Quigg (nurse)

Private Haley Ysborne (sharpshooter)
Private Ed Payton (sharpshooter)

Private Flora Lamont (communications)
Civilian Benson Coldwart (negotiations)
  
  
I feel since everyone else is doing this, I'll have to as well. Basically, the whole concept of Resident Evil, and a lot of the plot points taken from this story, have been directly grabbed from the Resident Evil series. The characters I created, but the whole concept, and the title 'Resident Evil', belong to Capcom Games. And, of course, legally, I can't accept money for doing any of this unless directly licensed from Capcom Games and, since I'm not, well.... There goes that idea. This isn't a Capcom-approved fanfic, either. Wait for five minutes to let simmer, serve, and enjoy.  
  


Ed stared on at the ship that had just exploded in front of him. He was still in shock, his mouth held agape and his eyes widened with something that felt like a mixture of fright and fury. He stood watching as their only ride home was being washed with flames. Lamont, their communications expert, was aboard that ship. Ed had only met her a few hours ago, hadn't had any lengthy conversations with her, but already he felt the reality of what was going on. She had been alive, and now she was dead. He looked at the wreckage to see if he could find any sign of her, but couldn't. The flames were too high and too thick. Even now, shrapnel and burning embers still hit the ground in a pitter-patter or a clang.  
  
Will moved in front of him and grabbed him by the arms. "Ed, let's go. There's nothing we can do here."  
  
"Private Payton," Lassart barked behind him. "You move, or you get left behind!"  
  
His trance broke and he stepped back into the hall, over the disemboweled human at his feet. They made their way down into the mess hall and he had to move around Gammon's unmoving body. The thing that had eaten him was still hunched over against the wall, thick dribbles of blood coming from its mouth and pooling on the floor.  
  
"Sir, I took a look around out there," Ysborne said as she approached Lassart. Ed remembered her as his sharpshooter partner. "There wasn't anybody around. It was... as if the ship had just exploded!" Ed looked up to see them talking, Lassart sitting on one of the bloody tables while she stood in front of him. "Sir," she reemphasized. "_Nobody_ was there. I couldn't pick up a thing."  
  
"Sir, I'd like to get to the bottom of this," Hedgewick said. "There are too many unknowns happening here."  
  
"I'd like to, too, Private," Lassart responded, seeming half distant. "That ship incident was...." He trailed off.  
  
Ed could feel cold sweat dribble down his forehead. He didn't like unknowns, just like Hedgewick. He couldn't stand not knowing what was going on. When he had a good grasp of things, when he was standing on a tower, watching enemy troops through a sniper's scope, he was fine. But in the thick of things, not even having taken position, not knowing what was happening... he _hated_ that!  
  
"Okay," Lassart began as he stood. "I know you won't like this, but no matter what's happened, we're here to do a mission, and we'll do that mission. I know we're spooked, and I know two of us have just been killed, but we need to carry on. I want two-man teams; we're going to search this area. Even you, Mr. Coldwart. We report back here in twenty. Got that? Any more than twenty, under the circumstances, and I'll consider having your badge. Sound off."  
  
"Watchreid and Quigg," Watchreid called out. Quigg looked him over with a little hint of disgust.  
  
"Ysborne and Hedgewick," Ysborne called out.  
  
It was Stymie's turn. "Hackson and Patton," he responded. Ed looked up, and even though Will was standing nowhere near Stymie, he chose to partner up with him. Made sense, though. In a situation like this, you go with whom you trusted, and the only ones Stymie had served with before were Will and Ed. Ed just figured Stymie picked the first one he saw.  
  
Ed looked around. It was only him, Lassart, and the civilian, Coldwart. He rolled his eyes. He wanted better backup than that. "Payton and Coldwart," he called out, even sensing the uneasiness he felt in his own voice.  
  
"I'll search on my own," Lassart responded. "Keep radio contact to a minimum, but keep it on. If any of you finds the power to this compound, you are to turn it on."  
  
"Sir, won't that alert the terrorists?" asked Hedgewick as he examined his rifle.  
  
"Don't second-guess my orders, Private. Now, move out." Lassart took the initiative and boldly marched toward one of the few doors that led away from the mess hall.  
  
  
  
Quigg let a lock of her blond hair fall in front of her face, but brushed it aside with one hand. Her glasses fit snugly under her goggles, but felt a little tight against her forehead. She would probably have imprints soon enough. She looked over at Watchreid, their strategist, and felt immediate discomfort beside him. She was, actually, sickened by him. He hadn't inherently done anything wrong to her, but he was one of them. The other half of the species couldn't screw in a light bulb without a woman's help. It was just too bad that too many of them were in charge of the planet.  
  
"Up ahead there's a turnoff to the right," Watchreid--who had copied Patton's online blueprints of the whole compound--said behind her, and she nodded in acknowledgement. She had her gun trained ahead of her and down to the ground, her medical training telling her that it was best to shoot for the femurs. Or the crotch for those hostiles that had balls. Her gun swayed positions from left to right and back to the left as she moved.  
  
They reached the bend in the hallway and turned. Quigg's goggles met with a dissatisfactory sight: another long tunnel, winding up and to the right. She sighed in annoyance, and then saw the door about midway up and on the left. Watchreid caught up, and she indicated the door, saying, "What's behind the door?" She did nothing to hide her discontent for her partner.  
  
"A... monitor room," he responded, checking the online blueprints. "Could be interesting."  
  
"Let's go, then," she replied, thinking back to the ship exploding. It figured that Coldwart would have escaped death and poor Lamont had to perish. The next hostile they got to, whether it was human or if it resembled that thing that had gotten Gammon, would be dedicated to her memory.  
  
She jiggled the doorknob and noticed that it was unlocked. Good. She didn't want to have to go searching for a key every time they wanted access to a room. She entered the room and the thing that had immediately caught her attention was the foul stench that escaped. She quickly found the source of the stench: two men were hunched over on a large computer console, face down with their backs torn apart. Their spines had been ripped out, severing any connection with the spinal nerves and fluids, and that was probably what they had died of, judging by the blood clotting around the surface tissue. Those must have been some abnormal Lymphs cells, and could have possibly leaked into the brain! Their shirts had been torn in the back, as well, presumably by whatever had removed their vertebrae with the same care and concern as a Mack truck.  
  
It was still dark in the monitoring room, and Quigg noticed that none of the computers were even on, although it looked as if both people were poised at their keyboards, almost as if they didn't know the computers weren't active.  
  
"Sudden deaths," Quigg remarked. She approached the men, the stench getting stronger. She put a mouth to her nose and pinched it. Then she noticed claw marks or stab wounds, sets of three scraping along both men's backs. She traced one with her finger and noticed that it was hardly bloody. The scrapes must have come after the spines were torn out, when the blood had rested. She made sure, seeing purple discolouration where the blood had rested inside the veins and capillary beds.  
  
She turned around. "I've seen enough. Let's keep moving."  
  
  
  
Hedgewick entered a room with the title 'Weapons Development' written on it in messy, red-stenciled lettering. Might be a good place to pick up something explosive. The rifle he had just wouldn't do any good against terrorists or.... He thought back to what had eaten its way into Gammon's temple. He shuddered. _What was that thing?_ Whatever it was, he needed something of a rapid-fire class to dispatch it and its siblings.  
  
Ysborne waited at the door for him, quickly glancing back down the pitch-black hall. "What's the holdup?" she asked.  
  
"Sorry, just thinking," he replied and stepped in. What he saw surprised him. It didn't seem like a weapons development area. There were beakers around, needles with computer equipment and chemistry textbooks--! It looked more like a laboratory than a weapons development area. What kind of weapons would someone develop in a lab? He expected to see some really heavy stuff, maybe even some missile launchers!  
  
"There's nothing here," Ysborne finally said.  
  
"No, no," Hedgewick replied, hardly begging, but feeling like he was. "There's got to be something around here somewhere. Let's take another look." He was thankful to have his night-vision goggles on, that he could see, even though everything looked like it was in a Gameboy display. He was hoping to find something, anything that was better than his simple rifle.  
  
A shuffle of feet, and his gaze shot up. Something was attacking him! It was upon him and he suddenly found himself yelling something as he stepped back, out of its drunken grasp. "What the--" He backed into something and felt a sharp stab at his elbow! He readied his rifle. "Ysborne!" he called out as it was upon him again.  
  
The thing was shriveled, angry and hungry, moaning to--to eat Hedgewick! Just like the one that had taken a chunk off of Gammon! The thing was too close, and Hedgewick had to angle his rifle upward at its chin! One shaky yank of the trigger and the whole thing's right side was blasted off.  
  
It fell to the ground, and Hedgewick could see that Ysborne had been taking careful aim behind it, making sure not to hit Hedgewick if the thing suddenly moved to one side. She was a very passive shooter, Hedgewick remarked. He found that his breathing had gotten heavy and laboured, so he put his free hand to his chest in an effort to calm himself down. That was a close call.  
  
"What was that?" Ysborne yelled. "What--"  
  
Another moan! Both Ysborne and Hedgewick looked down to see the thing with half a face trying to get back up! Muscle trauma was making it hard, but the thing was actually still trying to rise!  
  
"Die!" Hedgewick screamed and put his gun right up against the thing's head. He held his breath, and one squeeze of the trigger sent the rest of its skull and grey matter flying in several different directions! Hedgewick was splattered in the face with something and quickly wiped it off with his arm.  
  
"What was that thing?" Ysborne screamed, her eyes wide. "What's going on here?"  
  
A zombie? "Was that thing a zombie?" Hedgewick screamed back.  
  
"Impossible! Zombies don't exist!"  
  
"Then what was it?" His gaze turned from the headless thing at their feet up to Ysborne, a maniacal, wide-eyed expression plastered on his sweaty, bloodied face. His jaw was clenched, and he was open to any other rational explanation that Ysborne could offer.  
  
But she could offer none.  
  
  
  
Will entered the room that said 'Electrical Station' first, followed closely by Stymie. They were hoping to find something that would restore power to the dead compound, or at least parts of it. They were tired of wearing the sweaty, sticky, chaffing goggles all day, and were eager to get them off.  
  
"Okay," Stymie started. "Lemme see. What have we got here?" He leaned his rifle carefully against where one desk met a wall and interlocked his fingers, bringing them forward to crack them. Plopping himself down on a chair, he proceeded to look over the controls and noticed that, oddly enough, a computer was already turned on and operating! It must have been a master control computer attached to a self-generator or a battery.  
  
"Hey, Will," he called out. "One o' these things is on."  
  
"Yeah, I see it," Will replied as he approached. Stymie wheeled his chair over to the computer, its green-and-black illumination being a sight for sore eyes. Both Will and Stymie removed their goggles, placing them on the desk next to the live terminal.  
  
Will was surprised to see a menu-based interface. This would be easier than they thought, or at least Will hoped.  
  
"Okay, let's see what damage we can do," Stymie said.  
  
"Right," Will replied. "Try option three."  
  
"What's opt--Ooh, electrical operations. Why not?" Stymie tapped on the 3 key, and they were met with another menu, not as many options as before, but it seemed the fourth one looked just about right. "'Restore electrical power!' How's that for ease of use?"  
  
"I like this," Will replied, a smile broadening on his face. Stymie tapped the key, and immediately the lights flickered on. Will could hear the whirring of something as life seemed to be brought back into the area. "All right!"  
  
"That's how Stymie does things!" Stymie yelled, getting up. He and Will did a high-ten, clapping their hands together in the air before Stymie turned around, bobbing his head like a chicken as he performed a small dance. Stymie sat back down on his chair and pivoted it back around to face the computer.  
  
They looked back at the monitor and saw that the screen shifted around, showing displays of what Will had to assume were large barrier doors. This was strange. What was it doing now? A message flashed at the bottom of the screen, saying 'Basement Doors Now Opening'.  
  
Huge, garage-like doors that were made of thick aluminum pulled up and into recesses in the ceilings. The monitor viewpoint seemed to shift around the entire compound as the basement doors reeled upward. But it was what Will and Stymie saw next that shocked them. As each basement door was yanked away, they saw hordes of what had attacked and killed Gammon crawling, scratching, tripping their way out of the basement! A huge line of what looked like... the walking dead, drunkenly staggering their way up a shallow ramp that presumably led to the main levels. They couldn't be, but they looked like what Will had seen on all those George Romero movies. Zombies!  
  
"Oops," Stymie muttered. The only part of him that moved was his dropping jaw.  
  
  
  
General Lassart looked back as one of the basement accesses at the bottom of the ramp opened, shuttering violently and shaking as the mechanisms wrenched it open. His eyes widened with terror; he could hear the moaning and hungry babble of the undead as they stepped forth. The power had been turned back on moments ago--that was certain, since the light bulbs above him were now lit--but _this_ wasn't supposed to happen. What had those imbeciles done? This was the last time he escorted a bunch of pansy privates to the moon.  
  
He watched the horde as it escaped the shadows, a thick wall of zombies stumbling over each other like childish idiots. Zombies had the mental capacity of a brain-dead squirrel, but that was the reason they made the perfect weapon. Their nerves had been deadened, and so had their will of choice. But their hunger and lack of compassion or understanding were insurmountable.  
  
Lassart's rifle wasn't rapid-fire, so he couldn't exactly mow them down. He turned from the zombies as they came within a few meters of him and began sprinting up the ramp to the main level. The ramp may have looked shallow, but it was a pain to have to sprint up.  
  
_This wasn't supposed to happen!_ he kept repeating to himself. He knew that turning the power back on had its risks, but how else was he supposed to get to the rest of the compound, by prying the stupid access shutters open? Who were the morons who designed the compound like this in the first place? Letting access doors release when the power was restored. He had to blame himself, however, for strolling down the ramp. He had thought he'd seen the glint of something that might help, but was wrong. Now a wall of the undead was chasing him back up.  
  
He ran into one hallway that, if he wasn't mistaken, would lead to the laboratories. He had served here a little more than two years ago, so his memory was a little fuzzy. He was almost there--  
  
He tripped, but managed to catch the doorknob with one hand, supporting his weight on it before he could fall flat on his face. He righted himself and quickly tore the door open, then shut it behind him. He locked the door even though he was sure that zombies lacked the mental capacity to even operate a doorknob. Just to be safe, be cautious. Zombies were raging morons, but he didn't want that assumption to be his last mistake.  
  
He found a nearby table in the new hallway and rested, propping his hands against its wooden top. He hadn't had a good run like that since his days in the war. He looked back at the door and could hear the zombies scratching at it, trying to gain entrance, to eat him.  
  
_Looks like my work's cut out for me more than I thought in the first place,_ he thought, cursing whomever it was that had opened those basement accesses. Now the whole compound would be crawling with those T-Virus freaks.  
  
He fumbled for his communicator, but heard a shuffling. Something was behind him.  
  
  
  
"Stymie, what did you do? Those... _things_ are all over the place!"  
  
Stymie looked at Will defensively as Will raised a hand to point at the monitor and Stymie could feel a little sweat trickle down his brow. "Nothing! I just did what the sergeant said to do! I turned the power back on!" His heart beat so hard in his chest that he thought he was hosting an alien that was just hatching. "Just call Lassart and warn him. I'm sure everyone's gonna want to know about this."  
  
Will gave him an accusing look as he gently grabbed his radio, hooked to his shoulder, and tapped at an on its display, which Stymie assumed was the 'global page' computer display icon. He put it to his lips, but froze, creasing his eyebrows. He looked back down at the communicator display and his mouth opened slightly. "What the heck? Lassart's communicator is offline."  
  
Stymie snapped up off his chair. "What? His communicator's offline?" He checked his own communicator and, sure enough, the Lassart and Lamont icons were red, while the others were blue. "Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap--Let's just get outta here, shoot some o' those mothers down!"  
  
"Calm down, Stymie. I know you're itching to get out there, but just calm down."  
  
It was true. Suddenly, there was something to shoot. It was no longer just waiting and anticipating and detecting and figuring out what was going on. There was something tangible to shoot now, and he was almost giddy with the anticipation of going against the mass of zombies that they'd seen crawl their way out of the bowels of the compound. He might have been defensive about letting them go, but was happy that there was something to fight. His trigger finger was literally twitching as he held his gun in place and he had to use self-control so as not to go bursting through the door in search of hungry mobs.  
  
And then suddenly he heard it. The moaning of something coming closer and closer and, through the thick door, he was sure it was a whole crowd of them. Zombies. Then the banging began, right on the door, either because they smelled the fresh meat that was inside or.... No, it was positively because they smelled the fresh meat. Stymie looked up at Will and Will back at him, wondering how they would get out with only their Army-issued rifles.  
  
  
  
Watchreid heard it, almost as if it was calling for him in some strange manner. He grabbed his M1906 Army-issue .30 caliber and ran out into the hall. His goggles still worn, he watched as a deranged ménage of zombies (he choked on the thought) ebbed up some ramp. He tore his goggles off as the now-lighted hallway was interfering with them, and saw that the zombies had seemed to renew their will to climb when they caught sight or scent of him.  
  
"Quigg, you'd better come see this," he stammered.  
  
Quigg appeared in the hall behind him, and he looked back to see her expression of utter horror. "What are those?"  
  
Watchreid grabbed her by the arm and yanked her back as he ran. "Come on! Stop gazing and let's run!"  
  
She snapped out of her trance and turned to follow him, yanking her arm away. They hadn't made it far from the mess hall, so they didn't have to retreat for long, and were familiar with the path. As they stepped backward, they watched the zombies amble closer. It was strange; all they were was nothing more than a drunken, muttering mob of the undead, but they seemed collectively quick.  
  
Behind him, Quigg stepped through the door to the mess hall and then Watchreid. Watchreid calmed as he slammed the door shut, the pounding of zombies getting closer until they were just beyond the door, scratching and clawing at the feeble construct.  
  
Watchreid inhaled with relief, trying to catch his breath. It wasn't the run that exhausted him; rather, it was the situation. He sat down on a table, being mindful not to sit on anything mushy or bloody. He looked up at Quigg and saw, however, that she wasn't as relieved as he was. Her wide, blue eyes and nodding head told him that she was still rapt by the horror they had seen. Watchreid looked up at the door... and saw it throb. It bent inward as the zombies on the other side pounded rhythmically on it. He stood back up and cocked his gun, chambering a shell to ready it. He pointed at the door as he watched it splinter, and could see the grey, bloodshot eye of one of those monsters peek through it as it was mashed against the door by those behind it.  
  
"Get going," he found himself speaking to Quigg. He never liked her much, found her a lot like a man-hater, hardly even knew her, but here he found himself willing to let her get a head start. "Run," he said as he noticed that she was still engrossed by the pulsating wooden door that threatened to break from sheer pressure. "_Go! Now! Or I'll leave_ you _behind!_"  
  
She snapped out of it with a whimper and the jerk of her head. She peered up at Watchreid's focused, intense eyes. She got the message. She ran backward through another door and around the corner. Watchreid turned back to the weak door just in time to see it crack open. The first zombie stumbled to the ground as the door, now split in half, gave way with a resistant snap. He raised his gun and fired at the zombie that stepped over the first one. That zombie spilled back with a red splotch of blood at its neck. He cocked the gun and aimed at the next one, but missed, still lucky enough to hit one just behind it, anyway. He began backing toward the door through which Quigg had run, hoping that he wouldn't be met by another parade of zombies coming from the other direction.  
  
He cocked and fired again, and another red flower sprouted from one zombie's head. He watched as two went down, realizing that the force of the .30 caliber bullets was strong enough to smash straight through one zombie and into the next. Their deterioration must have helped.  
  
_Great, then, make a single-file line, please,_ he thought, wishing he had at least a close range .410-caliber shotgun, or perhaps a two-inch twelve-gauge, one of those with a 1145 fps muzzle velocity. Or maybe a tank.  
  
  
  
Quigg raced down one hall, grabbing the corner of the wall as she went so that she could use her velocity to her advantage instead of skidding to some uncontrollable halt and then turning. She hated Watchreid, that was for sure, but somehow felt a small stem of compassion welling up for him if he were willing enough to stay back and risk his own life so that she could get away. Maybe not all men were pigs.... No, all men were pigs. Just that Watchreid was one of the smarter ones.  
  
She turned the corner, banging her communicator on it, and stopped! The corridor was grimy enough that she could stop without slipping on the floor, and actually found that her upper-body's momentum kept her moving a couple more steps. But when she did stop, she watched as another parade of those beasts--zombies, whatever--clawed up a ramp, only a few meters ahead of her. She had to do something, and looked frantically left, then right!  
  
She found a door and tried it. It was unlocked! She barged into it, using her shoulder to force it open faster than her arm could, almost not waiting to twist the doorknob. She slammed it shut behind her and found the lock, connecting the heavy, thick locking chain to it. She backed up, and to her horror could still see the zombies through a glass window looking out at the hall. She hoped the window would hold up against their pressure, unlike the door.  
  
Quigg clutched at her communicator, trying not to take her gaze off the hungry mob on the other side of the door. It felt weird. Shocked, she looked down at it. It was broken! The top had popped off and the display had cracked! Wires protruded out and curled back in, and two of the buttons had been smashed.  
  
She backed up against one wall of the room, noticing that it only housed a table and two chairs, slinking down the wall as dread washed her over.  
  
  
  
Ed stepped out of a room, silently listening for something as he removed his goggles. He thought he heard grunting and groaning, reminding him of that creature that had taken a liking to Gammon's head. He steadily crept into the middle of the hall, putting a hand up to silence Coldwart. It was his duty right now to protect Coldwart since the negotiator was a civilian and, therefore, wasn't allowed to carry rifles. But, screw it. If it was any of those things coming across the hall as he could hear, he was running for his life. He listened intently for a few minutes, and white noise that he wouldn't normally hear now seemed to be way too loud.  
  
Coldwart strolled into the hall. Ed looked at him, his pudgy belly, thick glasses, and brownish-blondish bed-head a sharp contrast to Ed's own slim waist, toned arms and legs, and black hair. Without making so much as another sound, he took the cross from around his neck and lightly pecked the golden, miniature crucifix on his necklace. He dropped the crucifix and it slithered back underneath his shirt. He grabbed for his communicator and looked down at the display, noticing that both Lassart's and Quigg's icons were in red, along with Lamont's. That was strange. He ignored it and tapped the green global icon, then spoke into the receiver.  
  
"This is Private Payton. I'm just wondering if anybody else is hearing anything weird. It might just be a breeze, but I swear I hear... something. Like that creature we saw before." He released the talk button, and almost immediately another connection cut in.  
  
"Ed!" Stymie's voice, anxious and overpowering. "Get out of there! Now! That creature was a zombie, and the whole compound is being overrun by them! Take cover somewhere!"  
  
It was at that time that Ed's eyes grew hysterically wide. Coldwart looked in the same direction he was watching, and his eyes grew as well. Zombies. Probably about fifty of them, filing around the corner like a collection of rats in a sewer, crawling over and tearing at each other to gain the lead in some attempt to... eat them?  
  
Ed turned in the other direction, pivoting on his heel as he broke into a run. "Coldwart, let's go! Run!"  
  
  
  
Ysborne and Hedgewick heard the broadcast, but they stayed put. Hedgewick had closed the door to the 'development' room and locked it, hoping that they would not soon see the same parade that Payton had just seen.  
  
And she thought that it was impossible. It couldn't be zombies. It could be masked men in costumes, perhaps even poverty-stricken people in tattered clothes who hadn't bathed, but not zombies. There was some other logical explanation, and the situation seemed worse because of people's perceptions. She looked up at Hedgewick to see him scratch furiously at something in his eye.  
  
She tried to search for an answer to this enigma, one that fit the realm of believability, but she kept coming back to the same question: Well, then, what _were_ they?  
  


**Next time:** What are the survivors going to do about the overpopulation of zombies?  
  
For more fanfics of the same caliber, visit http://altmarvel.cjb.net!  
  



	3. Regroup and Rethink

**RESIDENT EVIL: FUTURE SHOCK**  
Chapter 3: Regroup and Rethink  
  


Sergeant Freemont Lassart

Corporal Wilson Gammon (second-in-command)
Private First Class Andrew Watchreid (strategist)

Private First Class William Patton (soldier)
Private Sloan "Stymie" Hackson (soldier)

Private Kyle Hedgewick (pilot)
Private Jane Quigg (nurse)

Private Haley Ysborne (sharpshooter)
Private Ed Payton (sharpshooter)

Private Flora Lamont (communications)
Civilian Benson Coldwart (negotiations)
  
  
I feel since everyone else is doing this, I'll have to as well. Basically, the whole concept of Resident Evil, and a lot of the plot points taken from this story, have been directly grabbed from the Resident Evil series. The characters I created, but the whole concept, and the title 'Resident Evil', belong to Capcom Games. And, of course, legally, I can't accept money for doing any of this unless directly licensed from Capcom Games and, since I'm not, well.... There goes that idea. This isn't a Capcom-approved fanfic, either. Wait for five minutes to let simmer, serve, and enjoy.  
  


Watchreid stepped out of the hallway and into what looked like a simple office. He shut the door, knowing now that those inhuman cannibals didn't realize the concept of doorknobs. _Just like dogs,_ he thought.  
  
He had faced off against probably eighty or ninety of those things, had shot four of them before realizing that his M1906 .30 caliber rifle was too slow to ward them off. They were just too overwhelming. He had escaped through the same door as Quigg had, just in time to see another wave of zombies banging at a door before some broke away and chased after him. He lost them, lucky enough not to meet another contingent of the undead down some other hall. And here he was, locking himself up in an office with a large, square, clouded window in the door. He clicked the lock shut gently and turned around to see the room. It was well lit, looked just like a regular Army office. War medals and plaques adorned the walls, and some pictures of what looked like a sergeant posing at different locations and with different people. Other than that, there was just an overturned garbage can with spilled papers and the remnants of someone's lunch strewn around its opening. Someone must have left in a hurry.  
  
Watchreid moved around the desk and seated himself on the padded chair, positioning the swiveled keyboard around to a comfortable spot. He found the computer's power bar hidden under the desk, and tapped the on switch with his boot.  
  
The computer powered up, and Watchreid was intent on finding some answers to this plague of zombies that seemed to have taken over the compound. Since the compound took care of all off-planet satellite transmissions, he wasn't surprised that they hadn't heard from anyone here, considering the compound's vacancy and dormant state. But he wondered if this plague hadn't overrun the entire moon. He hoped not. He knew people who had relatives up here.  
  
The computer finished loading the operating system, and Watchreid was glad to find the familiar graphic interface that computers seemed to have been abandoning of late. He located the mouse, which was hanging limply over the far side of the desk, and brought it over. It was an optical mouse, and Watchreid was relieved he wouldn't have to endure the torture of it rubbing on a mouse pad.  
  
He was presented with a directory listing, files and links spilling out across the monitor until the list was too big for the monitor to show. Watchreid was somewhat familiar with how these things worked, although he would be the first to admit that he was no guru. He found a listing of the most recent files used, and read the filenames, finding nothing really of interest except for one title 'Watchcam'. Not knowing what Watchcam was, he proceeded to load it up and was presented with a bird's eye view of what a camera was looking at. Some dimly lit area in a basement, focused but hardly revealing as it centered on a barren floor, a thin layer of dirt covering a sheet of concrete. The area was bathed in a spotlight, and anything outside the illuminated circle was in darkness. Nothing unusual.  
  
He looked around the options and found something that caught his eye: a list of computer icons titled 'Logs of Note'. What was this, a compiled list of important dates that were filmed? He clicked on the first one on the list and was greeted with the same camera viewpoint in the same dimly lit, dismal floor, except that the floor was cleaner. It was dated June 5, 2092, and an area of text that appeared below the camera display showed some information.  
  
Watchreid read it, a little interested now as to what would be of note to a United States Army sergeant. It was written in some sort of jilted point form.  
  
'Found some notes on biological weapons. Perhaps useful in times of war, especially with hostilities from Russians of colonizing the moon first. DNA schemas and biology breakdowns date back to 1992, one hundred years ago in a company called Umbrella, Inc. Descriptions depict strange cellular and mental breakdown and rapid deterioration of visual physique in victims. Victims became hungry and delusional. Some described victims as turning into biological zombies. It was called the T-Virus. Other viruses were developed such as the G-Virus, but none were as stable as the T-Virus, and all but it were abandoned in early 2009. The T-Virus was optimized in late 2009 to infect its victim within a few hours, leaving very little intellect and almost no metaphysical readings after only four hours. Tests showed little brainwave activity, dilation of pupils, and very little blood circulation when process was complete. Today, we tested it on some of our own. People reported becoming itchy before beginning cellular degeneration set in. Within two hours, they resembled descriptions given concerning original Umbrella victims.'  
  
Watchreid was shocked. What was the Army doing, testing on people? They caused this whole zombie uprising! He was filled with grief and shock, but was surprised that anger was not mixed in with the rest of his emotions. He clicked on the play button just above the camera display and watched.  
  
His eyes widened. He could hear activity before seeing it, high-pitched screams of resistance and the scuffing of something against the floor. Shadows shifted and soon Watchreid realized what was going on. He was watching an actual test of a virus injection! Two men clad in yellow biohazard protection suits dragged an unwilling participant into the camera's view! The man was bound with heavy chains wrapped around his hands and legs, and he wore a straitjacket that tied his arms back. The men bent down, dragging the chains with them, and grabbed at alligator clamps that were attached firmly to the concrete. The chains were fastened to the alligator clamps. The man still struggled against the bindings, but one of the men in the protection suit bent down and held him while the other took a needle and injected their victim with it. The man quickly succumbed to whatever the needle held, and it was obvious to Watchreid what it was: liquid infected with the T-Virus!  
  
He turned away, squinting his eyes shut as he heard the man's screams of agony quiet down. He peered back, expecting to see an immediate transformation into a zombie. That didn't happen. The tape had stopped, and Watchreid was left with the thought that the Army was--what?--producing biological weapons inside people? Producing people _as_ the biological weapons?  
  
He couldn't stay away. Like watching a car accident unfold, he had to click on the next log, dated only a few hours later. Immediately, the camera display shifted from the man, slumped on the ground and semi-curled into a ball, to a grotesque monster. The clock only showed four hours later, but the man had undergone a complete transformation. He now looked like one of those nightmarish ghouls, his clothes drenched in sweat and blood. Was that his own blood, or someone else's?  
  
The text information below the camera display read, simply, 'Victim after four hours of accelerated T-Virus replication'. What were they doing to the people here?  
  
  
  
The banging had stopped. The other side of the door now seemed silent, but Will put his ear against it anyway, just to make sure. He looked down to see Stymie trying to take a peak underneath the crack in the door, but there wasn't one. It was an industrial door, very secure.  
  
"I think they're gone," Stymie said, and Will was forced to agree. The zombies seemed mindless; they weren't the type to stop banging on the door to lure someone out. They had probably moved on, and Will wasn't even sure why they had decided that there was a treat behind this door in the first place.  
  
"I'm going to open the door," Will said, and Stymie stood up, readying his gun by cocking it to chamber his first bullet. It resisted, and Will realized that he now knew there was already a bullet in the chamber. Will's heart skipped a beat in the anticipation of opening the door. He grasped the doorknob, feeling the sticky, heated sweat in his glove as he did. Both hands were clammy, the other one grasped around his rifle. He couldn't think. He just had to do it.  
  
He whipped the door open, backing up and letting it sail past him to hit the wall to which it was hinged! He raised his already-cocked gun, aiming it at head level!  
  
The hallway was silent. The zombies had surely shuffled past them, deciding as a collective that the room held nothing of interest. He wondered why they were so hungry, what made them such mindless creatures that they only had one single purpose that drove them, it seemed: to eat.  
  
"We need to regroup with the others, find a way out of here," Will told Stymie as he sneaked out into the hallway, checking left and then right for the zombies.  
  
"No, we don't. We just need to blow these suckers away," Stymie responded.  
  
Will gave him a protesting look, bending one eyebrow and crooking his mouth. "You wouldn't last more than ten minutes with these guns. They were made for single-target shooting, not crowd control." He didn't wait for a response, sidestepping lightly down the corridor, toward the mess hall from where they'd come. Stymie followed a little bit less cautiously. He walked with a determined step, his gun pointing downward and its barrel swaying with his arm as he moved.  
  
"Let's get to the mess hall," Will said. "We can regroup there, try and find Lassart, and make a new plan. Find out if our mission parameters have changed since we found out it wasn't a siege that wiped things out here." Then the thought struck him: Was the entire moon taken by zombies? It was the first time he'd thought of that possibility and, although it hung heavy in his gut, he didn't mention it to Stymie.  
  
In a few minutes, they had reached the mess hall with no incident and entered. Will immediately noticed that one of the doors had been broken in half, one piece lying across the floor and the other piece still attached to its hinges.  
  
He lifted his communicator off his shoulder and noticed that Quigg's icon was reddened. He became immediately concerned. Did that mean that she had met the same fate as Gammon? With Lassart missing and Quigg's uncertain status, he had to act under the assumption that the death toll had risen to four.  
  
He tapped the global icon and spoke into the receiver. "This is Private First Class Patton here with Private Hackson. We've made our way back to the mess hall, our original entry point. We're prepared to retreat back to our established perimeter. Is there anyone out there? Over."  
  
He released the 'talk' button, and soon enough a communication channel opened up. It was Watchreid. "Private First Class Watchreid here. Patton, I'd advise you to get out of there. I was in the mess hall not ten minutes ago and was separated from Medical Private Quigg. The mess hall was taken by a whole truckload of zombies. They may be back any minute. I repeat: I'd advise you to find some other radio contact point. Over."  
  
Stymie grabbed at his communicator and held it up to his mouth, still attached to his shoulder. "Private Stymie here. Excuse the flippancy, but, if you're not up for a hunt, I suggest we get the heck outta Dodge. Over."  
  
Another connection opened, as Will saw Hedgewick's icon flash. "Private Hedgewick here. May I remind you that our ship is toast? Over." Hedgewick proceeded to cough, as if a lung were making its way out through his throat, followed by some other organs. This made Will pause.  
  
"Hedgewick, are you okay? Over." he asked.  
  
"Doing fine," he said, his voice strained as if he were trying to suppress another cough. "My throat's just a bit itchy and I think I've got a fever coming on. Great timing. Over." Another cough. It was obviously too much for him to suppress.  
  
"I suggest that anyone listening try to make their way back to the mess hall," Will said. He was hoping to make a final decision on regrouping the platoon, or what was left of it anyway. He was also hoping that more than the seven he thought were remaining would show up. A surprise visit from Lassart or Quigg would be much appreciated, and a surprise visit from a rescue cruiser would be even better. "Is it possible for you teams to make it back in twenty minutes? Over."   
  
"I copy that," Ed's voice came over the communication channel with much relief and agreement toning his voice.  
  
"Copy," Hedgewick replied.  
  
"Actually, I'm going to check out a little more over here," Watchreid replied. "Don't mind if I'm a little late, I hope. But I think I'm onto something about what's going on here. Seems the Army's scientists stumbled onto something developed about a hundred years ago that might explain what's going on. I'll have to pass on the house party for now. Promise to wait up? Over."  
  
"We can't promise a thing!" Stymie replied, pinching his suit at the shoulder to bring the communicator to his mouth. "Just get your hairy, pimpled stub here as soon as you can. Over." He cut his own connection, frantically searching around for the thick of zombies that had apparently passed by.  
  
"Okay, the rest of you get over here, double-time," Patton replied. It seemed that, with Lassart missing and Gammon gone, rank fell to him or Watchreid to take charge. Since Watchreid wasn't going to be present, he was going to do everything he could to ensure the safety of the rest of the troop. "If something happens here, we'll radio you guys and come up with a secondary meeting point. Over. Out."  
  
He clipped his communicator back onto his shoulder. In the back of his mind, he knew the troop would be lucky if everyone made it back in one piece. But, and he knew the reality was getting worse and worse, he believed that this was more danger than they'd all probably faced for a long while.  
  
  
  
Ed stepped into another room. It seemed that he and Coldwart had gotten lost, and a feeling of regret over not having paid more attention to their route enveloped him. Now they wandered through a row of steel cages, almost like the cell block in which he was imprisoned for the months he'd been a P.O.W. a few years back. Bones, picked clean and gnawed, were strewn around the dusty, unclean cages, discarded remains of some meal. He saw dried splotches of blood painted against the rocky walls as well.  
  
Ed had never felt so lonely or so frightened than here since their arrival. It was so ominous, so quiet, so foreboding. It was almost like these pens were made to hold some of the zombies, if that was what had happened.  
  
Coldwart kept close to Ed, obviously scared out of his mind. The smell emanating from his pants seemed to indicate that he had soiled himself, although he wasn't walking funnily. But Ed couldn't blame him if he had. Coldwart was the only one unarmed.  
  
It was annoying how Coldwart kept close, kept a hand attached to Ed so tightly that he was beginning to feel his blood circulation reroute itself. Every so often, he jerked his arm from Coldwart's grasp, only to have Coldwart reassert it, digging his fingernails deeper into Ed's skin, so deep that Ed wouldn't be surprised if he'd drawn blood.  
  
Ed wasn't paying attention. He stopped suddenly when he looked at what was ahead of him. The row of cages ended abruptly a few yards away with a cage at the end of the hall. It was, by far, the largest cage of all, and was still fastened securely shut. Chains had been wrapped around the door and the adjoining part of the cage, tightly wound. The lighting in the room, for it left the area a little lacking, plunged the entire cage into mysterious darkness. Ed stopped short, and so did Coldwart.  
  
"What's in there?" Coldwart asked, his voice trembling and frightened. He held his breath.  
  
"Not sure," Ed replied after a pondering wait. He tried to make a form out in the darkness, but couldn't. "Maybe nothing anymore. But I'm not gonna find--"  
  
A shriek gored the silence as violently as a man being crushed by a tank! It was shrill and ear-splitting, threatening to tear their temples off through its sheer sonic fury! Both Ed and Coldwart covered their ears, Ed dropping his rifle hastily as he felt his eardrums press against the sides of his head. He could feel his knees buckle from the sheer shrillness of the loud screech. But it finally stopped, and they looked at the cage in time to see two massive, green, clawed hands shoot out of the darkness and grab at two cage bars, rattling them and threatening to sever them in a vicious attempt to escape.  
  
"Let's get going!" Ed yelled and grabbed his rifle. "Get over to the mess hall with everyone else."  
  
"Shoot it!" Coldwart said. "Shoot the thing!"  
  
Ed cocked his gun and fired a round! He missed, and the bullet pinged harmlessly against the chain that held the cage door closed! He could see a chain link split. The bullet sounded as if it pinged off into another direction, forever lost in the enveloping darkness of the end of the hall.  
  
"Shoot again!" Coldwart hooted, then louder: "_Shoot it!_"  
  
Ed fired again, his pure, wide-eyed terror overriding his desire to run. He was held in place as the monster shrieked again, as high-pitched as before. It began pulling at the cage bars it held firmly in its grasp! Ed fired again, and the shriek was cut off this time.  
  
Heavy breathing, heavier than anything Ed had ever heard, punctuated the end of the death-rattle like a disturbing finale. Then one hand pressed against the cage while the other pulled. Whatever was inside that cage, engulfed in the darkened void, was bending the bars back! One cage bar snapped.  
  
"Now we run," Ed said, remarkably calm. He began sprinting, rounding the corner in the series of unused cages, Coldwart trying to keep up behind him. Ed didn't even want to look back, didn't want to see what that monster was or learn its intents, didn't want to learn how hungry it was and certainly didn't want see the inside of its stomach. He felt a shot of adrenaline, like it was injected into his veins intravenously, and pushed himself that much harder, kept running until his heart pumped venom and his legs became like overheated jet engines!  
  
_Get out!_ he screamed at himself. _Run! Faster!_  
  
He reached the end of the row of cages and then turned around, but couldn't see Coldwart anywhere.  
  
  
  
Coldwart was plodding along, and all of a sudden felt like he was in one of those dreams where he tried to run but could only do so in slow-motion. His heavy strides made him feel like he was waddling, and now he wished he'd taken that membership at the gym and gotten fit. He was losing his breath now, and sweat trickled down his brow. He finally let his muscles go and could feel something slimy and warm fill the seat of his pants. He reached the corner and prepared to turn--  
  
He was suddenly hanging upside-down, grabbed by the leg--  
  
Hot, stinking breath tickled the back of his neck--  
  
Three arms grabbed him. It seemed like three arms--  
  
Suddenly, he was in pieces, his arm detached from his body and his body detached from his legs--  
  
Blood cascaded down his chest as he felt his stomach being ripped open--  
  
He was torn in half--  
  
His neck bones stretched and splintered apart--  
  
He blacked out.  
  
  
  
Hedgewick limped out of the room he was in. He felt his skin getting a little clammier and his nose was beginning to run. Whatever it was he'd caught, it hit him like a truck. Usually these things did, though.  
  
"Hey, Hedgewick," Ysborne said as she stepped up in front of him. "You look like you've been sleeping in a microwave. You're burning up. Are you okay?"  
  
He hadn't noticed the tightness in his lungs, his laboured breathing, until he tried to talk. "I'm okay," he replied through bated breath. "I just feel a little nauseous. And I'm having trouble breathing. And my skin is clammy and my rose is running and the air tastes funny and I'm running a fever and my eyes are getting dry and my arms are itchy and so are my legs and my throat and I'm getting hungry and thirsty and I feel weak and I can't stop complaining and my teeth feel funny and I can't feel my legs--" He promptly bent over and turned his head over his over shoulder. A thick stream of warm, gooey vomit expelled from his mouth like a waterfall, just once. He stood back up as much as his energy would allow him and wiped his bottom lip with his arm. "But at least I don't feel like I'm gonna throw up anymore."  
  
  
  
Watchreid read on, having reached a section of a document he found called 'Virus Effects'. What he had gathered was that the T-Virus seemed to be able to replicate itself in a host body much faster than it's Twentieth Century counterpart, the original T-Virus. They had found the scientific journals of many of the original T-Virus's developers, had found notes, even DNA charts on how to rebuild it, and got the idea of creating an army of the undead. They improved on the T-Virus. Now, within about an hour, a host seemed to undergo the entire transformation from completely healthy human being to raving, starving, rotting, walking corpse. As he read on, he learned that the virus was, indeed, intended to become a biological weapon for the Army (in the writer's words, "What's the use of wasting the dead?"). They experimented on the living, people they had snatched from the moon's community that wouldn't be missed. They wanted to create an army that no longer cared what the pain was, what the cost was.  
  
_All in the name of science,_ Watchreid thought. _All so that they can build the perfect weapon. These hypocrites are killing the people they're sworn to protect._ Watchreid shuddered at the inhumane callousness, the utter lack of morale it took to do such a thing. He had read their test cases. They experimented on children! They even remarked coldly about how children changed faster since their hearts were so new and strong, while the elderly reacted slower simply because their heart rate was so poor!  
  
He still didn't know what happened to everybody, who released the virus and why. Was it a mistake or someone who'd developed a conscience or went mad? Something else?  
  
Watchreid looked up in time to see a shadow move in front of the clouded glass window on the door. He clutched at his rifle silently, hoping that the zombie hadn't smelled or heard him. The shadow shifted. He couldn't quite make it out, but knew it was humanoid from its shape, which meant it must have been a zombie. And it... raised something in its hand. It seemed to be pointing at him. And, at that point, Watchreid realized it wasn't a--  
  
He ducked as a shot rang out, shattering the glass of the door's window and slicing through the padding in the chair! Fluffy foam spat out from the exit point of the bullet as another shot was fired! The second shot hit the monitor, and shards of broken glass chipped out and onto the seat while smoke rose from the deadened box.  
  
Watchreid crawled under the desk for cover as the shots stopped. He could hear frantic running from outside, and opened his squinted eyes. He bound out from under the desk and around it, slamming the door open and raising his gun in one direction, then the other, searching for his attacker.  
  
The attacker wasn't around. He or she had escaped, and the footsteps were now too far away to be heard. But one thing was certain: Watchreid wasn't going to be able to see what was on that computer without another monitor.  
  
  
  
Will watched as Ed stamped into the mess hall sans Coldwart. That worried Will. Had they lost their hostage negotiator? It wasn't like they needed him for his skills anymore, but he didn't want to exactly count Coldwart among the dead.  
  
"Where's Coldwart?" Will asked as Ed propped himself up on a bloodied table to catch his breath. This didn't suffice, so Ed righted an overturned plastic chair and sat down on it, putting his hands on his knees as his breathing began to slow.  
  
"Don't know. I think he's dead. But we have bigger problems here than zombies."  
  
Will's eyebrow creased. "What was that? Bigger problems than zombies? Like what?"  
  
"Coldwart and I--" His breathing was still heavy. "--we sort of wandered off down what looked like a caging room. Had a bunch of steel cages in it, which is where I guess they put some zombies or something. We got to the end, then this... _thing_ in the biggest cage saw us and I guess it got really angry because it actually started jiggling the cage bars, trying to escape. We couldn't see what it looked like 'cause it was shrouded in the darkness, but its hands looked slimy and green and big. We ran off, and as we did, I could hear the cage snap open and then that was the last time I saw Coldwart. By the time I turned around, he was gone. So I assumed that the monster ate him. But I didn't hear a scream or nothin'! And I didn't wait around to see."  
  
Will covered his face with one hand and wrinkled it through his features, as if washing something off his face. "Great," he said, his voice hardly audible. "So, what do we do? Any suggestions?"  
  
"I have one," Hedgewick responded as he stumbled into the room, looking pale and sickly. "We get off this rotting planet and back to Earth." Hedgewick was hanging forward, almost stumbling like an elderly man with each laboured footstep he took.  
  
"Hedgewick, are you okay?" Will asked as he stood up and advanced toward him. "You don't look so good. And that coughing you had...."  
  
"Talent for understatement?" Ysborne replied, right behind Hedgewick.  
  
Will counted in his head the people they had present. There were five of the soldiers here. He counted Gammon's and Lamont's deaths, and Quigg's, Coldwart's, and Lassart's unknown locations. With Watchreid, that made eleven. That accounted for everyone.  
  
He grabbed his communicator and tapped on it, opening a communication with Watchreid. "Watchreid, we're ready to head out. How are you doing?" He could hear Watchreid's heavy breathing on the other side, but it was obvious he was trying to keep it quiet.  
  
"I'm on my way," he replied, whispering. "Ran into a problem. Somebody tried to shoot me."  
  
_That's weird,_ Will thought. _Shooting zombies? I didn't know they were smart enough to operate a trigger._  
  
"Whoever it was shot the computer I was using, tried to shoot me. Then it ran off."  
  
_That's definitely not a zombie,_ concluded Will. What he'd seen of the zombies until now led him to believe that they weren't too capable of using a gun, but even less capable of running. It wasn't all that plausible, which meant they had a survivor here. Or was it terrorists who had released the zombies?  
  
"How long until you arrive?" Will asked.  
  
"I think I'm only a couple of minutes away. I just passed a group of zombies that's been trying to batter a door down for the past hour. They seem very focused; they didn't pay any attention to me."  
  
"Great. Get here ASAP. We're on our way to find a hangar bay. We're getting off this moon."  
  
"Okay, see you in a minute. Over and out." The connection closed, and Will hoped, as he shut his eyes tightly, that Watchreid would indeed live to make it back to the mess hall.  
  
  
  
Quigg covered her ears and squeezed her eyes tightly as the battering got louder, wet, slimy slaps hitting the window and door. She reopened her eyes and looked up at the window, seeing hungry maws mouth unintelligible groans as the zombies hit the window again, staining the resilient plastic with slimy handprints. She screamed as the door clattered especially loudly, the zombies' attacks seeming stronger. She had only a rifle; that wouldn't stop them if she opened the door.  
  
But she couldn't very well stay in the room. It was bare; there was nothing to eat, nothing to live on. Maybe she could outwait them, but it didn't seem like they were going anywhere. In fact, it seemed as if more zombies had joined the fray.  
  
She stood up and made her way to the window, having to brave each step she took. She looked into the hollow expressions of the zombies that were once disgusting males, their mouths bobbing open and closed like fish. How was she going to do this?  
  
She didn't have much of a choice. She could either fix her communicator--which looked thoroughly broken--or cut her way through the foray of zombies.  
  
She looked at them, noticing dried blood on their faces, gangrene having set in on their skin in splotches when they were still considered alive.  
  
She calmed herself down. She had to figure things out, and set about mentally trying to decipher the process under which the infection and bacteria worked. First, the disease would have to be transferred through contact. Most diseases of this sort weren't airborne, and, if this one _were_ airborne, she would already be showing signs of infection. So they would most likely bite or scratch. That would definitely cause transfer. The cellular decomposition would probably take place in a few hours. This virus showed signs of being manmade, and manmade viruses were typically tweaked to work in under a day. The virus would be transferred through the bloodstream, which would explain why Gammon hadn't gotten up and walked out. He was dead, and so his blood wasn't flowing. The virus would probably try and eat him, but wouldn't get very far and wouldn't last very long.  
  
The next step would be to make its way to the brain, begin shutting down unnecessary brain functions that had to do with human will or moral distinction. It probably shut everything down except for some motor control functions, some speech functions, and the ability to perceive hunger, or at least the ability to crave sustenance.  
  
Lastly, the subject's vital functions would be held in some suspended state. They were not dead, or else they couldn't move around, but they certainly weren't alive anymore. Their brains would have been so shut down by that point that they couldn't even be considered anything but robots. Why they didn't run was a mystery, as well. Maybe it was because their bodies were so weak and deteriorated that they couldn't, or maybe it was just that they lacked the intelligence to perceive when running was necessary. Either way, they couldn't run, and that made her hope rise a notch. She worked out a plausible infection scenario, and was pleased with it. It held tightly, and she hoped the information would prove useful.  
  
But what mattered the most to her right now was getting out.  
  
  
  
Lassart stared into a large computer screen, awaiting a return signal. What was with these idiots on Earth? Even though the lag time between transmissions was only one second, it seemed like they were taking hours! Were they just ignoring him after sending him on this suicide mission? It wasn't like he was past the sun where the lag time was a little more than eight minutes. He was on the moon, blast it!  
  
He slammed his hand down on the transmit button one more time, seeing if he could open a communication with his superiors on Earth to get him off this hellhole. He knew he was growing weary of waiting, but his impatience was warranted. It had taken him so long just to find a communicator he could use in the first place, let alone wait for them to answer his signal. What were those buffoons doing?  
  
Finally a visual picture appeared on the six-foot square screen in front of him. 'Connecting...', it said, the three dots flashing one after the other in a rhythmic pattern. A face appeared on the screen a few seconds afterward, and Lassart recognized the face as that jerk, Master Sergeant Edwin Chesholm, his immediate superior. He guessed that they expected the only call to come from the moon would be Lassart's, so they put that orangutan at the other end of the transmission.  
  
"Sir!" Lassart snapped as he stood to attention and saluted. Moron, he thought.  
  
A pause, and then, "At ease, Lassart," Chesholm replied, his visualization pixilated. But even with the one-second delay, the transmission seemed smooth.  
  
"Yes, sir," Lassart replied as he sat down.  
  
"How is the mission?"  
  
"Well, everything went fine up until our ship spontaneously exploded!" Lassart replied, and was even surprised by how forceful and assuming that sentence came across. But it was just like Chesholm to backstab him like that. "All of our heavy artillery was still aboard it!"  
  
Chesholm smiled, and Lassart paused with worry. "Well, well," he said, chuckling. "Looks like things went fine. We weren't sure if our little insurance policy would work."  
  
"Insurance policy?" Lassart said. He could feel the rage well up in him, well up so much he felt like standing and flinging the chair at the monitor, wanting to hurt Chesholm badly! He clenched his fists, having to exercise great self-control. The chair would most likely smash the monitor. Not good.  
  
"Yes, our insurance policy. To make sure you do this cover-up right. No mistakes. Mistakes, you don't go home."  
  
"That wasn't part of the bargain!" Lassart yelled, and this time he did stand up, ready to grab the chair at any given moment.  
  
"It is now!" Chesholm barked back, his face becoming spoiled with anger. "Shut up and sit down! You'll address your superior with respect, sergeant!"  
  
Lassart had to calm himself. He padded down his space uniform and sat.  
  
"Good," Chesholm replied. "How goes the T-Virus containment?"  
  
"Not well," Lassart replied. "It turns out some idiot contained the carriers in the basement. When the power was restored, I had to lose them before I could come down here and contact you. They're all over the base."  
  
"Oh well," Chesholm said. "They won't get out of the base. It's locked tightly. I just need you to get to the explosive control chamber and activate it."  
  
"Is there any way for me to get home, sir?" Lassart said, hardly able to contain his contempt for the vile man on the screen.  
  
"Oh, that little detail," Chesholm said, looking honest in his forgetfulness. He would make a good actor. "Yes, there is. In the east hangar, there is a private ship. Fits four men. It will be activated when the explosives are activated. Another little insurance policy. It's already waiting, and I know you're familiar with the controls. But it only activates and refuels when the explosives are activated. Did anybody find anything out?"  
  
"Almost. Watchreid got hold of Sergeant Herriville's computer files. I think he was accessing the recorded tests, but that was it. I shot the computer and tried to shoot him, but couldn't."  
  
"Good. Make sure no one finds out. This is strictly for our department." Chesholm checked his watch. "You need to get back to work. We're expecting this all finished in a couple of hours."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Oh, and Lassart?" Lassart looked up and into Chesholm's eyes, seeing that all-too-familiar, cold, serious look he wore all too often. "Your original orders stand: no one comes home with you. No one."  
  


**Next time:** More hoopla and Hedgewick brings the party hats.  
  
For more fanfics of the same caliber, visit http://altmarvel.cjb.net!  
  



	4. The Subtle Difference Between the Dead a...

**RESIDENT EVIL: FUTURE SHOCK**  
Chapter 4: The Subtle Difference Between the Dead and the Undead  
  


Sergeant Freemont Lassart

Corporal Wilson Gammon (second-in-command)
Private First Class Andrew Watchreid (strategist)

Private First Class William Patton (soldier)
Private Sloan "Stymie" Hackson (soldier)

Private Kyle Hedgewick (pilot)
Private Jane Quigg (nurse)

Private Haley Ysborne (sharpshooter)
Ed Payton (sharpshooter)

Private Flora Lamont (communications)
Civilian Benson Coldwart (negotiations)
  
  


At least for the first twenty minutes, no one said a word. It was just too suspenseful for most of the surviving members of the platoon that had landed on the moon only a few short hours before. But Stymie had to break the silence and he hated silences more than he hated the zombies that were traipsing around the compound as if they owned the place.  
  
"How many people here are part o' the undead? Raise your hand! God loves ya, anyway! Cheers to y'all!"  
  
"Hackson, shut up," Ysborne chided, trying to keep her demand quiet. "Keep it down. They might hear you."  
  
The surviving members of the platoon walked in a circle formation, at least one person looking in every direction from which the zombies could possibly emerge. It was an old, dated technique they had all learned in training, but it served its purpose well at a time like this and this situation was the textbook example for the maneuver: caught behind enemy lines, trying to make your way to a certain point. That was exactly what was going on, and most didn't want any surprises along the way but Stymie thrived on the excitement that he almost wished one of them would tear its way through the flooring and crawl out to attack them and that way he could blow something's head off, do _something_ at least!  
  
They were looking for the nearest hangar bay, the east one, and Will wore his goggles although the night-vision had been turned off, so that he could follow the map that was depicted inside them.  
  
He looked at Hedgewick, who looked positively as white and pale as a clean sheet or sour cream without the mould. Hedgewick was starting to look greyish, the colour washed away from his face and, even in the bad lighting of the area, Stymie could see his skin beginning to wrinkle in places, his eyes becoming redder, and....  
  
Wait, something sticking out of his elbow glinted, and, boy, did Stymie like shiny objects.  
  
"Wait, wait," Stymie said as he held up a hand. "Hedgewick, turn around for a sec."  
  
Everyone stopped, and Hedgewick complied, slowly and unsteadily lurching his whole body in a half-circle and Stymie blocked his dead-fish breath as his mouth came around. In one gloved hand, Stymie slowly extracted the glint, which turned out to be a long and thin, metallic stick--a medical needle head?  
  
"Hedgewick, have you been piloting our ship on some sort o' narcotic?" Will asked as he looked up to see that Hedgewick's eyes were fluttering closed, as if he couldn't even keep himself awake.  
  
"No," he whispered, his voice grainy and marred with weariness. "No. I don't do that kind of stuff. I took a drug test before we left. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been able to come." Another series of coughs followed, Hedgewick placing a loosely curled fist to his mouth.  
  
"Come to think of it," started Stymie, "I wouldn't be surprised if we've all been on blue dot for the past few hours. That would explain a lot of things." He turned to Hedgewick. "You sure you--" he began, but stopped as he looked at Hedgewick's fist. A splatter of blood had been spat out of his mouth with the final cough. Hedgewick cleared his throat and, with a disgusted grimace, Stymie looked up to see blood at both corners of the pilot's mouth. "A word, Will," he said as he backed away, and he watched Will do the same.  
  
They strolled down one hallway about six or seven paces before Stymie stopped and, looking at Hedgewick in the distance, spoke to Will. "Will, I think Hedgewick is turnin' into one o' those things. One o' those zombies," he said matter-of-factly.  
  
"What?" Will obviously tried to keep his voice down, but it came out as a sharp, audible stage whisper. "What are you talking about? That's impo--"  
  
"It's impossible?" Stymie interrupted and looked wild-eyed at Will, his mouth hanging open and his tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth unmoved after he shaped his last syllable. "Check him out. He's got just about every sick symptom that exists. His eyes are all red and his skin is startin' to look clammy. When I grabbed that needle out of his elbow, I touched him. It's all sweaty and sticky and wrinkled and cold and as mushy as a dead fruit and--"  
  
"Okay, okay," Will interrupted. "I get the point. But what do we do about it?"  
  
"We drop 'im."  
  
"We drop him?"  
  
"Yeah, we let him go. Shoot him or somethin'. Before he turns all wacky." Stymie's hands danced around him as he did what he was considering a display of wackiness.   
  
"Stymie, I'm not going to just kill him. First of all, that's a war crime. We'd be killing one of our own and we'd go to jail."  
  
Stymie's eyes widened even more. "He could eat us at any second."  
  
"We'll find a way," Will replied. "Besides, without Quigg around, we don't even know for sure what he's got. It could be just a mutant allergic reaction."  
  
"I found a needle stickin' out of his elbow, Will. That ain't no mutant allergic reaction."  
  
"Let's go. Watch him, but we keep going. We're already down to six as it is. We can't afford to lose anybody else."  
  
Stymie gave him an anxious look, his eyebrows curving inwardly and his eyes still as wide as he'd ever been able to make them. He was sure to keep an eye on Hedgewick, and the barrel of his rifle in the small of the pilot's back.  
  
  
  
Hedgewick looked at the funny one and the normal one coming back. The normal one was saying something, but he couldn't hear it. It was all just a bunch of quiet talking. Then the other one said something. And then the one who was helping him along, the lady with the gun--Ysborne? Ah, who cares?--said something else. They started moving again, so he went along.  
  
Itchy. He was itchy all over. Even his hands were itchy. But how could he scratch his hands; they were the things that scratched the other itchy parts. He took some steps. He didn't feel like taking any more. He wanted to sit down and wait. He didn't know why he wanted to wait. There wasn't anything to wait for. But he wanted to wait. Then a drip of something came down his forehead. It went on his eye. It was salty. It tasted good when it fell into his lips. It was yummy.  
  
He was hungry, oh so very hungry. He wanted to go find food. Eat food. Swallow food and then eat more food. Food was good. And 'good' and 'food' almost rhymed, except the O letters sounded different. Or were they Us. Food. Good. No, 'food' was spelled with a U.  
  
He was still itchy. And hungry. And everything looked so tasty. Hungry. He was....  
  
Then something stopped. But he didn't know what. And then he couldn't see.  
  
  
  
Quigg yanked the door open!  
  
Luckily, it swung inwardly, or she would have been stuck forever with the zombies plastered to it. They weren't even surprised when it opened, and just hungrily moved in, tripping over each other in a feverish attempt to be able to eat her. She raised her gun and fired a bullet that punctured one zombie's neck. That zombie was felled, its head almost severed, and the next one received a bullet that dotted its exploded eye and probably most of its cerebral cortex. It went down, knocking the one behind it down as well.  
  
This simple plan wasn't working! They were still closing in, and she became hysteric! Her rifle was just too slow, and she readied it, the empty bullet shell popping out as a full one replaced it. She had to run, get away. They were almost upon her! They were clawing at her face!  
  
She broke into a run, knocking the zombies aside as she did. She whacked a couple with her swinging rifle, and managed to fight her way through some of the thick without being--  
  
No! She felt a zombie's jaw tear a piece of flesh from her arm and she fought it away! It seemed content on chewing the piece it had before attacking again. But another one took a slice from her leg, and she limped out of the room, grabbing the door and slamming it shut behind her!  
  
She watched as the zombies, now in the room, banged against the window and door to be released. She dropped to the ground and so did her rifle, clattering as it bounced against the wall. She looked down at her wounds, reddish marks on her arms and legs where flesh had been torn. She was going into shock; she could tell. It was a different shock than she'd ever imagined, a deeper one. It was probably the toxins taking effect. She let a stifled cry escape her lips and covered her mouth as tears welled in her eyes before dripping down the curves of her cheeks.  
  
She watched the zombies patter the door and window, their muffled attacks somehow getting louder and more dreadful. She tried to stand, but the pain was too much now that the adrenaline shock had worn off. She didn't want to be one of them, and yet she felt her energy draining, her eyes getting drier.  
  
She couldn't handle it. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to believe that it was okay, that she was wrong when she told herself that the disease was transferable through biting or clawing. But she couldn't. With every passing breath, she knew she was that much closer to becoming one of them.  
  
She wondered what it would be like, the single-minded fury she would have, the pain and weariness that were enveloping her. She wondered if she would care at all that she was dead, that she had no other goal except to eat others.  
  
She looked down at her rifle, wondered if there were any more bullets left. She picked it up and checked. Yes, but only one more.  
  
She slowly, unsurely took the barrel of the rifle and placed it inside her mouth. She shut her eyes tightly and said a muffled goodbye.  
  
  
  
Will thought he could hear a gunshot echo from behind them, a few meters away. It was a single blast and then a wet, slapping sound. He paused as he moved along, but nodded it off. It could have been anything, and he wasn't about to risk the lives of the rest of the platoon here because he thought he heard something strange. Besides, no other gunshots followed and it seemed as though no one else had heard it.  
  
Then another sound! A shrill, penetrating, spine-quivering sound that mashed his eardrums against his skull! He stopped as the sound did. It echoed through the halls, a long reminder of it after it had died. "What the--"  
  
"That was that monster I was telling you about," Ed replied, a little hoarse and frightened. "It's walking around. I bet you it smells us or something."  
  
"How about we pick up the pace then?" Stymie suggested.  
  
"Yeah, good idea," Will replied, and he saw Watchreid and Ysborne nod in agreement. "I don't think I want to be around to shake its hand."  
  
The soldiers quickened their walk, and it seemed that Ysborne was almost dragging Hedgewick's body along. His legs had curled underneath his body and now hung behind him lifelessly. They reached one corner, and Will had to check and double-check the map. The networking corridors and halls were confusing--and it didn't help that they all looked alike--but he figured his way. They had to turn left ahead and then right. Then they would almost be at the hangar bay. Hopefully, there would be a ship in waiting, or they would have to go to a completely different hangar bay, probably the one on the south side, since that way seemed to be clearest. The north hangar bay was the one in which they had landed and was vacant except for their smoldering wreck, so they didn't want to return there. And Hedgewick's physical state wasn't making things any easier.  
  
  
  
Itchy. Scratchy. Something smell tasty. Kill something. Tasty-yummy. People yummy. Hungry. Eat.  
  
  
  
Watchreid looked down at Hedgewick's body, and he seemed to be trying to walk, although his legs still dragged along the ground. His head twitched. His arms were twitching, as well--  
  
Hedgewick suddenly lunged at Watchreid with a sudden and unexpected burst of energy like shocking electricity! Suddenly, Hedgewick was at Watchreid's belly, tearing the suit apart with his skeletal, rotting hands!  
  
With alarm, Ysborne dropped Hedgewick and backed away in horror, gasping.  
  
Hedgewick plunged his head into Watchreid's suit, tearing a chunk of Watchreid out with him and slurping it down like it was his first dinner! Watchreid screamed in pain and dropped his rifle. He put both hands at his stomach, clutching at it and trying to keep the gushing blood from erupting any more. He dropped to his knees and Will Patton, Stymie Hackson, and Ed Payton turned. Ysborne turned away while Watchreid tried to bat Hedgewick's gnashing teeth from biting him with one hand, the other still trying to contain his stomach's wound.  
  
Hedgewick grabbed Watchreid's arm and dug in with one powerful, grinding bite, grabbing a mouthful of skin tissue and muscle, and cracking the bone. He moaned as he ate. He followed this by taking a chunk from Watchreid's neck, not even having swallowed the first bite!  
  
  
  
Will screamed, "Hedgewick!" as Watchreid's body fell to the ground. Watchreid twitched spasmodically, and a thick film of white spit erupted from his mouth and trailed down his chin. His eyes had rolled up into his head, and he screamed gutturally.  
  
Stymie pointed his rifle quickly at Hedgewick's temple as he continued to eat on Watchreid's severed flesh. Hedgewick attempted to keep his morsel of food from dribbling out of his mouth as blood oozed from his gnarled fingers, but one wet piece dropped from his lip. Stymie pressed the rifle barrel against Hedgewick's temple, trying to keep a steady aim as his heart beat even faster, looking around at Ysborne--who had turned toward the wall and covered her face--Will, and Ed. Ed released a heavy breath as Watchreid's gurgling screams flooded the area. Hedgewick didn't even flinch, didn't even try to move the gun barrel away from his temple. Stymie fired, one quick shot into his ear that erupted out the other side and into the concrete floor, luckily bouncing off into the feebler wall. Hedgewick's head exploded in a shower of mucous, grey matter, blood, and bits of skull. His body flopped to the ground as the top half of his head rocked to a rest beside it.  
  
Next, Stymie chambered another bullet. He turned his gun to Watchreid, noticing a spring of crimson blood fountaining from the chewed part of his neck. He looked up at Ysborne, who was still keeping her head against the wall, then at Ed, who was clutching at the cross on his necklace. Ed closed his eyes calmly. Stymie looked at Will, who saw him through the corner of one eye but was looking down at the ground ponderingly, not at Watchreid or Hedgewick. A few seconds passed, Watchreid's intensifying screams cutting through their bones like chilly, winter winds. Will nodded, and Stymie fired another bullet into Watchreid's head. The screams were cut, and then a deadening, creepy silence followed. Stymie didn't dare look down at Watchreid's body, nor did he even want to see the spray of blood that the bullet had caused.  
  
He simply stepped over Hedgewick's rotted, zombie corpse and continued toward the hangar without a word. He looked back as Will followed. Ed stepped along behind Will, first turning to Ysborne and putting a hand on her shoulder, whispering, "It's done."  
  
The piercing shriek of that monster erupted again! Will imagined a huge banshee trying to mimic bagpipes, but as he covered his ears, he couldn't bear to conceptualize what would make such a shrill noise. He crouched, feeling his knees buckle from the shrill pressure of the offensive scream. The scream stopped, and he turned to see the other soldiers. He yelled, "Let's double-time it!" They began a heavier run toward the end of the hall, only a few paces away now. They rounded the first corner, turning left, then the second on their right.  
  
A door slammed open! It was behind them, down at the end of the hall and around the corner, which was still a good ten-minute walk away, but Will could hear the power behind the jarring sound. He wasn't sure, in fact, if the door had been slammed open or torn off its hinges and thrown.  
  
Again, the same sound, this time, a twisting, wrenching, snapping metallic noise, one that was almost as shrill but resembled the screaming horror they had heard only a moment ago. They picked up the pace again, reaching the end of the hall and opening the large, iron door they found at the end of it with great effort. They slipped in. Stymie was the last one through, and forcefully pushed the heavy door shut. There seemed to be no locking mechanism. All four soldiers searched the door frantically, trying to find something with which to bar entry.  
  
"Crap, crap," Stymie chanted. "Can this all get any worse?"  
  
"Yes, it can," said a booming, threatening-but-familiar voice from behind them. Stymie turned around, then Will. Ed and Ysborne followed, but more slowly.  
  
Lassart stood in front of them, a few steps ahead and to their left. He held in one hand a small gun. Neither was it one of the Army-issued rifles with which they had come nor anything Will recognized from the ship when it had been intact. Lassart pointed it menacingly at them, his aim darting from one to the other in a frantic, random pattern. His random aim, however, was belied by his calm, cool demeanour.  
  
Behind him, a set of stairs led up and out of the compound, which was evident from the light that was cast down at it, definitely the glow of the spotlights cast on the hangar bays. To his left and right were doors, leading into rooms adjacent from the short stretch of hallway. To the left, closer than the doors and Lassart, was a hallway that led off somewhere unfamiliar to him.  
  
Will took one cautious, slow step forward, and Lassart reasserted his aim. "Get back!" he screamed.  
  
"Sir, we're not zombies," Will said calmly, putting his hands forward in what he hoped was a soothing manner. "We're still alive. We're not going to do anything."  
  
Lassart clicked his tongue and chuckled. "I know you're alive, you dimwit."  
  
"Then, sir--" Ysborne started, but was interrupted.  
  
"Shut up! I know this comes as quite a shock, to see that your sergeant's pointing a gun at you, but just listen. Listen for one single second before flapping your disobedient mouths. Who's still left?"  
  
Will swallowed and spoke up. "No one. Just us. Hedgewick and Watchreid are dead, and we're assuming that Quigg and Coldwart are, as well."  
  
"Good." His smile broadened. Lassart maneuvered his way closer and into the hall that connected to the current one, just before the doors. He stepped back a couple of paces and motioned them to walk ahead with a slight movement of his gun. "Drop your guns. Hands on your heads. Get going. Into the door on your left and down the stairs."  
  
Each soldier dropped his or her gun, the rifles clattering to the floor heavily. The soldiers slowly walked forward, their sweaty hands placed on their heads. Will was the first to enter the room, and had to carefully move his hand toward the doorknob to open it. He hoped Lassart wouldn't see this as a hostile action, especially after having been given instructions to put their hands on their heads, but there was no other way. Luckily, he opened the door without being shot, and put his hand back where he was supposed to put it. The door revealed a dark set of stairs, lit only with a solitary light bulb that hung lonely from the concrete, downward-sloping ceiling. The stairs ended about ten steps below them, but Will was unable to see what was in the room, the slope of the ceiling blocking his vision.  
  
"Now go down the stairs," Lassart ordered.  
  
Will stepped down, asking, "Where are you bringing us?"  
  
"Just get down there!" Lassart barked. "I only need one of you, so don't test me!"  
  
Will reached the bottom of the steps, and the first thing that caught his immediate attention was the biohazard symbol emblazoned on a lighted, plastic screen embedded in an uneven wall. The symbol was inside of a small, five-foot square nook implanted in that same wall. The only side of the nook that wasn't concrete wall was its opening. A computer terminal, sitting on a concrete pedestal, was on, a rectangular cursor blinking, ready for human input.  
  
Will stepped to one side of the small basement area and positioned himself against the far wall. Next, Stymie stepped down and moved to beside Will, followed by Ed and then Ysborne. Lassart, of course, was last, and stepped over to the opposite wall. He motioned to the small nook. "I need one of you to get in."  
  
"What's this all about?" Ysborne asked, a sense of hostility coming through that Will would ill-advise in a situation like this.  
  
"A little background, then, before you die. About ten years ago, a few of us were on a mission in a city called Raccoon. It turns out that we were doing a little reconning at the former site of a defunct and crooked pharmaceutical company called Umbrella. They were illegally producing some sort of toxin. The toxin--the T-Virus, as they called it--would turn whoever ingested it into what you've seen here: zombies. We gathered the notes the company had, information on how to duplicate it, and then tried to develop a bio-weapon that the U.S. Army could use on its enemies. Unfortunately, the higher-ups shut the project down.  
  
"I was part of that team, conducting the experiments to create those weapons. Up until two years ago, I was directly involved in it. Then, when the U.S. government decided it was too inhumane to follow through, they pulled the plug. However, a small handful of us decided it was too powerful a project to just abandon. Soldiers that don't need to sleep or that have morale problems. They were perfect, amoral war machines. We decided we needed to go through with our plans, and so those that were left on the moon continued to develop this thing, while I and some others kept things on Earth quiet about the project.  
  
"Then the moon lost contact with Earth. When contact was restored and we got that garbled transmission, we knew exactly what had happened: some idiot spilled something. The whole project had laid waste to the compound, and a cover-up was needed. So they called on me, because I knew my way around the base, to lead a team here to mop up the mistake. They figured the public wouldn't buy a solo run to the moon to find out why the transmissions hadn't been restored, and I needed assistance in dealing with the zombies, so they had to come up with you--the team that would accompany me--based on a bunch of loners that knew nobody and wouldn't be missed, just so that the clean-up wouldn't draw attention. And, now, I have to make my escape. And the final piece of all of this is to set off the self-destruct sequence that will wipe away any evidence of the experiments, then blame the explosion on terrorists. To do that, I need one of you to enter that cage and go about it."  
  
"That's why we weren't expecting a siege, but were armed for one?" Stymie asked.  
  
"Exactly."  
  
Stymie's face turned into a wrinkled grimace. "What the--What good are these stinkin' rifles against an army of zombies?"  
  
"Get in the nook! Private Payton, step in there!"  
  
  
  
Ed looked up, shocked. He felt his heart skip a beat at being the one that was chosen to perform the self-destruct sequencing. He hurried into the nook and faced the computer. He was surprised that Lassart hadn't picked Stymie, but Lassart probably thought that Stymie was too computer-illiterate. Ed was known for his interest in computers.  
  
"Why don't you just do this yourself?" Ysborne asked. "Why do you need us?"  
  
"Home base is so full of surprises lately," Lassart said as he gave a slight smile. "I just want to make sure this isn't one of them." He turned to Ed and barked, "What does it say, Payton?"  
  
Ed turned to the computer and studied the screen intently. "It's asking for a username and password," Ed replied, his voice slightly shaky. The nook looked looming enough without the overhanging dread that it could be a deathtrap. Ed was almost going out of his mind looking around the place with every movement he made, watching the walls, the floor, the terminal itself.  
  
"The username is 'administrator'," Lassart replied. "The password is 'apocalypse'." He smiled.  
  
Ed set his fingers on the keys, tying and mistyping the username and password so many times that he noticed his own nervousness, the shaking in his body and fingers. Finally, he stopped typing and pressed the enter key with such a soft touch that he was wondering if the computer would sense it.  
  
"What now, private?"  
  
"It's asking for a clearance code. It's assuming you want to set off the self-destruct function."  
  
"The clearance code is niner, alpha, niner, gamma, cappa, theta."  
  
Ed typed in those keys: 9, A, 9, G, C, and T.  
  
"What's it saying, private?"  
  
Ed watched as bland, green-lighted colours spilled onto the screen, one after the other. "It says 'Self-Destruct Activated: 10 minutes. Escape rocket: Fueling and Charging'."  
  
A calm, female, mechanized voice overpowered the area, blaring over speakers from up the stairs and in the hallway. "Self-destruction procedures have been activated. Evacuation is necessary. Ten minutes remain." The voice echoed and reverberated down into the basement.  
  
"Well, I guess that's it. You only have ten minutes to live--"  
  
Ed's heart sank. He relaxed his muscles, and slouched his shoulders. More words, and he interrupted Lassart to say them out loud: "'Trap set.'" His voice was so feeble, so shaky, he felt like he was going to cry. He heard something metallic clang on the ground behind him, and turned around to see that a sturdy cage wall had dropped from the ceiling, trapping him inside the small nook. He grabbed the cage bars with his hands and a cast a solemn look over his face.  
  
Two slabs of rock slid out of the way, one on either side of him, in a heavy, stone-scraping drone. Each slab revealed a larger recess, both containing a crowd of zombies. Ed closed his eyes as he heard the zombies scuffle toward him from either side.  
  
  
  
Will watched as Ed was enveloped by a crushing wave of zombies that came from both sides. There was nowhere Ed could run, nothing Ed could use as defense. The zombies chewed into him mercilessly, and all that could be heard from him was a loud, torturous scream that soon turned into a gurgle that died down to nothing. The zombies continued to feast as Will turned away from the gruesome scene, from watching someone he'd come to know very well be eaten alive by unyielding, ruthless, cannibalistic killers.  
  
"I guess I was right," Lassart said, and Will turned up to see that he hardly had a shocked face that spread over his usually calloused and calm demeanour. "It was a trap."  
  
"Nine minutes and thirty seconds until destruction of base," the intercom voice warned.  
  
"Well, let's get this done with," Lassart spoke calmly and pointed his gun at Stymie with his arm fully extended. "First, we'll take care of Hackson."  
  
A scream! It was that shrill, frightening, and overwhelming cry from whatever that howling fiend was. It came from upstairs, muffled through the thick, heavy iron door. Then the wrenching of metal, the tearing of hinges as what sounded like that very same door was being torn violently from its mooring! More screeching, tearing metal, and then the sound of something slamming against something else!  
  
Breathing. Heavy breathing. It came from upstairs, right at the head of the staircase that led down. It was so heavy and so intent that Will could hear it over the humming of the computer and the smacking of hungry zombie lips munching on his long-dead teammate.  
  
Lassart looked up, the calm and coolness washed from his face, replaced with slight distracted worry. He looked upward to the top of the stairs. "Oh no," he muttered softly, so softly. "Someone let the Tyrant-2 out."  
  
"What's a Tyrant-2?" Stymie asked as he took a step away from the wall to see what the monster was.  
  
"Don't move. It'll come down if you move. Let's just say the Tyrant-2 is what you get when you inject a grizzly bear with the T-Virus." His eyes widened. "Oh, no. It's looking at--"  
  
Suddenly, a green blur slammed into Lassart, sending both him and the blur colliding into the wall behind them, right next to the zombie-infested nook! Claws flew upward and slashed at Lassart's face, goring his features! Lassart screamed as it grabbed him by the neck and lifted him up, cutting short his sounds of protest. A bone-snapping crunch echoed out of his throat as the thing strangled him, and then it grabbed him by the legs and twisted. Another bone-snapping sound and his upper body had been severed from his lower body except for the gooey strings of gore and tissue that remained, stretching like hot cheese on a pizza. It flung the lower piece aside and left the upper body in its grasp, mashing Lassart's face with one gigantic fist. It grew bored of tearing Lassart to shreds and turned toward the three remaining soldiers, its nostrils flaring, as it dropped the faceless half-body that used to be Lassart to the ground.  
  
It was green, slimy, and scaly. It was human shaped except for the extra pair of enormous arms on it, ones that almost scraped the ground. Its fingers weren't fingers; they were long, bloody talons. Its feet were massive, long, twisted claws jetting out of its toes like gargantuan toenails. It was devoid of any sex organs. Its face was a monstrosity on its own, a pudgy nose with yellow, catlike, thin eyes and a mouth twice the size that it should have been, with teeth that glimmered red and shiny with wet blood, teeth that curled downward and outside of its mouth. Its ears stood up, but it was presumably unable to hear since it more than likely had screamed itself to deafness.  
  
The Tyrant-2 menace stood, staring at them, not moving except for its heaving, rock-hard chest as it breathed. It watched them intently, probably savouring the moment before the brief hunt.  
  
Stymie managed one sentence: "It's game over, man."  
  


**Next time:** THE FINAL SHOWDOWN! NINE MINUTES LEFT ON THE CLOCK! ALL THIS AND A NEW MICHAEL JACKSON VIDEO SHOOT!  
  
For more fanfics of the same caliber, visit http://altmarvel.cjb.net!  
  



	5. A Nitro-Cadmium Ride Into the Belly of t...

**RESIDENT EVIL: FUTURE SHOCK**  
Chapter 5: A Nitro-Cadmium Ride Into the Belly of the Beast  
  


Sergeant Freemont Lassart

Corporal Wilson Gammon (second-in-command)
Private First Class Andrew Watchreid (strategist)

Private First Class William Patton (soldier)
Private Sloan "Stymie" Hackson (soldier)

Private Kyle Hedgewick (pilot)
Private Jane Quigg (nurse)

Private Haley Ysborne (sharpshooter)
Ed Payton (sharpshooter)

Private Flora Lamont (communications)
Civilian Benson Coldwart (negotiations)
  
  
I feel since everyone else is doing this, I'll have to as well. Basically, the whole concept of Resident Evil, and a lot of the plot points taken from this story, have been directly grabbed from the Resident Evil series. The characters I created, but the whole concept, and the title 'Resident Evil', belong to Capcom Games. And, of course, legally, I can't accept money for doing any of this unless directly licensed from Capcom Games and, since I'm not, well.... There goes that idea. This isn't a Capcom-approved fanfic, either. Wait for five minutes to let simmer, serve, and enjoy.  
  


The monster didn't move, but neither did Stymie, and he hoped the others wouldn't, either, because it would be tough to avoid that thing when it propels itself at a victim in such a way that it did at Lassart. But at least it was nice to put a face with a voice... or a scream.  
  
"We need to get out of here," Will whispered, moving his lips as little as possible. "We're unarmed, and if that thing makes up its mind and decides it wants to come get us, we'll be dead in seconds."  
  
"We stay right here," Ysborne replied, her voice so hurried and quiet that Stymie had to play it back in his head before he understood it.  
  
The thing panted loudly, a foul-smelling breath of air escaping its pudgy, wrinkled nose. It quickly craned its neck toward them, bringing its ugly face only inches away from Ysborne. Ysborne turned her head to one side, trying to avoid its soul-searing stare, its malevolence, its foul breath, the dripping blood that only now was beginning to dry.  
  
"Nine minutes until destruction of base," the intercom voice warned, and the Tyrant-2 looked around, turned, distracted by the voice as if it were in a dream-like state.  
  
"Run," Will whispered, trying hard to not make the Tyrant-2 notice him. "Go." No one budged. "_Run!_" Will broke away from the wall and sprinted toward the stairs and Stymie and Ysborne did, too. Stymie hit the first step in a dead run, heaving his tired body up as he heard the thing behind him scream like a thousand angry, charging elephants. He looked back and looked and saw the Tyrant-2 raise two arms up in the air while it took a swipe at Will passing behind it.  
  
Stymie made it up the stairs and grabbed two of the four discarded rifles, chambering a much-needed bullet in each. He took a position by the side of the door, his back to the wall, while Ysborne and then Will barreled up the stairs. They moved aside and Stymie positioned himself at the doorway, watching as the thing reached the foot of the stairs and wondering how it could move so fast when it was just a huge, green, mindless bulk.  
  
He aimed both guns and fired, two echoing bullets furiously darting toward the Tyrant-2! The kickback sent him sailing into the wall behind him and he felt his vertebrae ache painfully when he hit. He wondered if he'd hit the Tyrant-2, but as Will and Ysborne picked up the remaining rifles, he didn't care. He looked down at the rifle in his left hand and noticed that it was empty. Great.  
  
He heard something leap heavily up the stairs. "Let's get moving!" he yelled and stood, darting to the staircase on his right that led up to the hangar bay.  
  
Stymie looked up at the hangar, seeing an inviting view of the stars that lay beyond the clear glass bubble that guarded them inside their artificial atmosphere. Floodlights faced down at them, illuminating the entire hangar bay, an empty area aside from one lonely ship, much smaller than the one in which they'd arrived. It was pure pavement with painted lines marring the surface, surrounded by a huge field of grass that was bordered by a white curb. A shower of water resembling a downpour of rain currently fed the grass. Stymie ran to the ship, almost forgetting the monster that was chasing them, and noticed that a thick, white hose attached it to some console near the compound. He looked at the painted markings on the pavement and noticed that the ship was double-parked.  
  
The door to the ship hung open and he bounded up the clattering, metallic stairs and into the cockpit. He looked over the controls and saw only one display lighted. It read, '20% Prepared'. _Oh, great,_ he thought. _It's running behind and we're about to be eaten by an irate grizzly. I wonder if it's uploading Half-Life._  
  
  
  
Will saw Stymie bound up the stairs into the hangar and followed him, waiting as Ysborne moved ahead of him and keeping his gaze on the outside. He heard the thing move up, heavy footsteps thundering on and probably breaking each step as it went. The room echoed--_BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!_--as the thing leapt up, the clattering and shaking getting closer. It was heavy-footed, but maybe it was bred that way to increase fear in its victims. Ysborne reached the top of the stairs and he turned, but stopped, looking back.  
  
The monster had reached the last step into the hall. Will tripped back on the step behind him, falling down on the staircase, his back pierced by its sharp concreteness. The Tyrant-2 slowly turned to him, using a suspenseful sluggishness that contradicted its quick-striking nature. It stared right at him, obviously noticing him. It waited. What was it doing, toying with him? Did this thing actually have a freedom of choice somehow, instead of straight, one-track-mind programming? Did it feel like playing before it killed him?  
  
Will fired, a single shot piercing its leathery chest! Or did it even pierce? The monster seemed unaffected--  
  
--as it gathered velocity, tearing across the short hall and straight at him! Will scrambled up the stairs, backpedaling his way up while the monster gained ground!  
  
It struck! It embedded its long, deadly talons into the concrete steps, palms facing upward, just inches below Will's feet as he turned to rush up the stairs in a frontward direction. The Tyrant-2 tore the stairs, forcing its mammoth hands up and bringing the steps with it! Will was sent sailing in the air and sailed over the stairs, landing on his stomach outside where he was suddenly bathed in the illuminated hangar! The wind was knocked out of him, but he slowly stood up, aware that the monster was right behind him. And he certainly hoped that, when the Tyrant-2 chose to play, it played nice. No rending of limbs allowed.  
  
He turned around and watched as it barreled toward him, slamming against him and sending him sailing in a wide arc that landed him meters away against the hard pavement right by the white curb. He looked over toward the ship, seeing Stymie and Ysborne inside the cockpit.  
  
  
  
"Stay here!" Stymie yelled to Ysborne. The ship was only at 40% readiness, and wasn't going nearly as quickly as he'd like. "Make sure it keeps going and try to turn a weapons system or something on!" And then he scrambled out the cockpit and down the staircase, watching as the monolithic mutant grizzly snorted and watched Will uncomfortably stand up.  
  
"Eight minutes until destruction of base," the intercom voice warned. _What happened to eight-and-a-half minutes?_ Stymie thought. _Did I miss somethin'?_  
  
"_Hey!_" Stymie yelled, jumping and waving his hands at the Tyrant-2 to get its attention, hoping that it would give Will more than enough time to recover and hoping that he wouldn't die in the process and oh, boy. It was looking right at him.  
  
"Let's get busy then," he said as he readied his rifles. The thing began charging right for him, like a rampaging rhinoceros. Stymie dropped one rifle, letting it clatter on the ground as he took the remaining one in both hands. He fired at the beast, but it only continued toward him faster, so he readied the gun and fired again, and repeated the process but the thing just kept running toward him.  
  
It was upon him and, wide-eyed, he ducked and rolled to one side as the thing sprinted past his position. It hit the grass behind him, and Stymie could hear heavy, muffled footsteps slow down. He looked up at the beast and watched as it turned around slowly and looked at him again. No smile. No thin eyes. Just cold, calculated terror watching him as he stood up and scrambled off in one direction and he could hear the thing pick up speed.  
  
  
  
It ran toward Will, who had stood on the grass, the water beating down on him. It started off in the distance, but seemed to instantly gain a top velocity, no speed pickup. Will stood his ground and fired at the beast, hitting something because he saw its right half recoil. At least the Tyrant-2 could feel. He readied the gun and fired again, readied, and fired a third time, and then heard his gun click empty.  
  
Great. No bullets. He ran to one side and watched as the thing reached him and sliced the ground where he'd stood a second ago, picking up a clump of dirt and grass as it did. It brought its claw-hand up, essentially tossing the turf away.  
  
Will reached Stymie's side and grabbed the discarded rifle, throwing the empty one aside. "Any ideas?" he asked.  
  
"Kill it," Stymie replied.  
  
"Great. Could you work on that idea a little more?"  
  
  
  
Ysborne watched the seconds tick by. The ship was only at 50% readiness. What could take it so long to fuel?  
  
She ran a hand nervously through her hair, turning around. And something caught her eye. It looked like a set of mechanically-sealed, high-tech coolers of some sort. A carrying handle sprouted out of each grey-and-red case. Ysborne walked toward them and crouched down, reading the hastily-written labels on the tops. 'T-Virus Samples and Files', she read, the blue ink scrawled on peeling masking tape.  
  
_No wonder they had a ship ready even though the whole activation was a trap. This thing is probably programmed to send these samples back to Earth in case this scenario happened!_  
  
She grabbed the first of three cases and, as heavy as it was, dragged it to the front of the ship. She had to yank on the handle, unable to actually pick it up. She reached the ship's embarking stairs and yanked it out. It tumbled down the stairs in sharp, heavy, clattering metallic thumps. She looked up, exhausted after having heaved only one of the sample cases to see Stymie sprinting away from the Tyrant-2. They were holding their own against it by simply dodging to one side as it reached them, but they looked like the fight was taking its toll. In the lighting, Ysborne thought she could see sweat drenching Stymie's forehead.  
  
Will lifted his rifle and fired a shot at the monster's back to no effect. It just wouldn't be hurt! Ysborne slowly brought her arm around behind her and felt for her rifle, grabbing it as she found it. She brought it up and fired once at the monster, who was only a few meters away. It stopped and flinched at the bullet, deciding who to chase next. It seemed to not notice Ysborne aside from the fired bullet. She chambered another round and fired again, this time sure she hit the back of its head. It didn't react, probably having felt it like a human would feel a buzzing mosquito. It thundered angrily after Will, and Will had to roll to his left to avoid being crushed by its momentum against a wall. Ysborne lightly jogged a few paces forward to make careful aim at the thing.  
  
The computerized voice warned them that there remained only six minutes until the explosion would cascade through the entire compound, and she wondered where the time went.  
  
The Tyrant-2 turned around and began bounding in the other direction, straight at Will as he stood. Will was only about fifteen feet in front of Ysborne, so she called to him, "Will! Get out of the way!"  
  
He looked up and at the thing and ducked again, rolling underneath its titanic legs as it ran! Ysborne took this opportunity to fire, hitting the Tyrant-2 square in the chest. She readied another bullet, but... the chamber clicked! The rifle was empty.  
  
  
  
Will watched as the thing ran past him, relieved that he had a second's respite to find some better cover than being out in the open. He stood up. It didn't stop, bounding toward Ysborne! It passed her, and suddenly she had no head! Her body stood, but it ended at the bloody stump that was her neck!  
  
He couldn't look away, and watched as the Tyrant-2 quickly turned and stabbed through her chest with both clawed hands! It spread them, and soon her body was in two halves, her entire carcass split down the middle in a tangle and mess of bone and other remnants! The two pieces landed in bloody pulps at the Tyrant-2's sides. It looked up at Will and Stymie, still holding her head in one hand. It licked its lips with a long, snaking tongue and held her shocked, wide-eyed head up, as if displaying it to them. It crushed the head, bringing together its claws in a tight fist as slime and gore was squeezed out of the skull from top and bottom. It threw the head behind it, now just a misshapen remainder.  
  
Stymie stood next to Will and said, "I think it's time we get on that ship."  
  
"I agree. How do we keep it from tearing through that thing when we get aboard, though?"  
  
Stymie looked at him. "_You_ figure it out. I'm exhausted!" He looked up and ducked out of the way as the thing rocketed past him, dripping a trail of crimson goo as it ran!  
  
He got up. "I'll meet you there," he said before beginning his run toward the ship, leaping over half of Ysborne's body as he reached it. Will looked behind him and saw the thing stampeding toward him. Wide-eyed, he dodged to one side and let it scrape the pavement with a clawed hand, scooping up nothing but air and sparks as it brought its hand back.  
  
He took aim and fired a shot, hearing the blasted warning from the compound that there only remained five minutes. What were they going to do against this thing? It was impossible, but there was no way to hurt it, no way to make it even flinch in pain!  
  
  
  
Stymie looked at the progress display and saw that it was at 80% now, a little more encouraging than coming in to see that it was only at 30%. Some of the lights had blinked on, and he looked across the controls to see how familiar he was with them. Not very, but it would have to do unless Will knew something more than he did about piloting a ship back to Earth. Otherwise, they were in big trouble but there could be a way to shut down the self-destruct procedure, but he wasn't about to burst through the horde of zombies that could still be picking their teeth clean of Ed so that they could start chowing down on him. That wouldn't exactly be his dream come true.  
  
He looked over the ship, resting his rifle on one seat and taking in the dashboard controls, the consoles, even the piloting wheel, and noticed one small display above it that blinked something that he couldn't read because of the glare from the overhanging lights. He leaned down, reading the display and saw that it said 'Autopilot activated; Takeoff in 90 seconds'. A shocked, grim feeling sluiced through him, and he looked back at the progress display. It was at 90%, and Stymie suddenly felt the urge to lean out the door and scream at Will to get his butt into the ship. If this thing was on autopilot, it was going to take off when it hit 100%, whether Will was on it or not. He looked back at the autopilot display and watched it count seconds, passing eighty-five.  
  
"Will!" he screamed and ran for the door, bounding down two of the three steps. "Will!" He watched Will dodge to one side of the monster as it sliced at where his head was only a split second before. "Will, you'd better get in this ship! It's gonna up and leave you behind if you're not here in about one minute!" He turned to scramble back into the ship to grab his rifle, when he added, "And that's a literal minute, not a figurative one!"  
  
  
  
Will overheard Stymie screaming something about getting into the ship in about a minute. This caused his heart to race as he noticed that now the Tyrant-2 stood between him and the ship. Just perfect. If he had only one minute to kill the thing and board the ship, they were certainly screwed. Or he could, perhaps, just board the ship. The coming explosion that would dispose of the entire compound would certainly be enough to lay waste to the mutant grizzly. Or perhaps not. None of the fifteen or so rifle shots it took had even caused it to recoil, aside from that one to its side. He decided that fighting grizzlies sucked.  
  
"Four-and-a-half minutes until destruction of base," the intercom voice boomed, and Will had decided he also hated female, computerized voices. He was learning a lot about himself during this mission.  
  
The Tyrant-2 began walking toward him, threateningly watching him as it stepped. Will could hear the slap of its bare feet against the pavement as it moved, its steps fluid and unyielding. Then it tore toward him! As if snapping from one speed to the other instantaneously, it now bore down him, a raging behemoth! Will dodged to one side, but it didn't work this time. The monster was through playing and it reached out and grabbed him in its massive hand, pulling him back toward him and staring him down as it continued running!  
  
But it stopped and held out its mouth! It quickly moved to bite his head off, initiate its violent attack. Will had to think quickly! He jammed the barrel of his rifle up into its mouth to block it.  
  
The thing tried to move its head back but leverage prevented it. Will acted quickly. He angled the rifle up and pulled the trigger!  
  
He could hear a splattering sound, and the Tyrant-2's eyes opened wide with a demented realization. It was actually stunned. Will chambered another bullet and fired again, readied and fired again. And again. He repeated the process time after time, until the rifle was empty, and he heard the deadened click of the hammer dry-firing. Blood, milky, thick, and red, oozed out of the Tyrant-2's nose. He looked into the thing's face, seeing that one eye had exploded and the messy socket was now seeping the same blood that its nose was. The other eye had fallen out; apparently the rifle fire had screwed up its skull so much that nothing was left to which it could be attached. The Tyrant-2 fell backward, and as it did, Will stumbled to his feet and dropped the rifle.  
  
He couldn't stop, though. He broke into a run, making a beeline for the ship. He bounded up the stairs in one leap. "How much time?" he asked, his breathing chopping his words into hyperventilated fragments.  
  
"Fifteen seconds," Stymie replied. He stabbed at a bunch of keys, trying to do anything to take control of the ship, but to no avail. It wasn't a huge matter, however. The ship was presumably going where they wanted to go, and since neither were great pilots, this was probably the best option.  
  
The time had elapsed. As the echoing voice outside warned them of the imminent explosion occurring in three-and-a-half minutes, the hatch began whirring. Both Will and Stymie looked at it to see that it was rising, the stairs folding into the ship as the door lowered, closing the gap.  
  
Will sat in one of the command chairs that overlooked the hangar outside. The small craft began its liftoff by picking itself up from the hangar's pavement flooring. It angled to the right, tilted slightly, and gave them a perfect view of the body of the dead Tyrant-2 outside, lying on the flooring across from the bloody remains of Ysborne. The refueling tube that was connected to the ship detached as the ship reached a certain altitude, the tube tugged off.  
  
Stymie took the other command chair. "With their tanks and their bombs and their bombs and their guns," he sang, barely audible over the external bubble hatch opening to release them into space.  
  
The ship lifted out of the bubble, and, for a split second, they could watch it close behind them as they fired off toward Earth. The stars outside streamed back in white, hot streaks, reminding Will of what he saw when they'd first arrived at the moon. After a few minutes, he was sure they were burning asteroids, but realized they probably needed to be near Earth's atmosphere so that entry through the ozone would burn them.  
  
Stymie pressed a few buttons and rotated some dials, trying to see if he could affect or perhaps aggravate the ship in any way. "So, I told you," Stymie said as he looked over what was laid out on the console in some seemingly-random pattern, groups of buttons that Stymie probably had no clue about.  
  
"Told me what?" asked Will. He raised an eyebrow and turned toward Stymie.  
  
"This wasn't some free trip to the moon. Things aren't always the least fun scenario."  
  
Will shrugged his shoulders and leaned back, a smile spreading over his face for the first time since he was able to stand up after the ten-hour trip to the moon. He counted in his head the final seconds before the compound exploded, and even glanced back to see if he could see it. No, it was too far back. He looked over to his shoulder, and as he did, could see the communicator icons, one after another, turn from their natural green state to red. First Watchreid's communicator icon, then Coldwart's, then Ysborne's, all the way down to the last one: the one belonging to their deceased friend and platoon-mate, Ed.  
  
They all blinked red except for his and Stymie's. Will turned from it and tore it off his shoulder patch, dropping it onto the floor. He proceeded to close his eyes, lie back, and cradle his head in the cup made by his interlocking fingers.  
  
Home was now only an aching butt away.  
  
  
  
Boonword strolled down the hall, trying to make it to the sergeant's office as soon as he could without dropping the tall stack of papers he had heaped in his hands. He had to look to their side as the stack was too tall for him to peer over it. His glasses and thin frame made him look weak, like he would only ever amount to a desk jockey for the rest of his military career, but he was tough, fast, and good under pressure. Or so he thought, but he was never sure of what others would say about him were he ever to get caught in a hostile situation.  
  
He plopped the stack of papers down beside the open door of his destination and looked at the uniformed, mustached, pudgy man seated at an old oak desk in front of him.  
  
The sergeant, in his early fifties but highly decorated, looked up as he knocked. Boonword saluted when he did. The sergeant saluted back and said, "At ease."  
  
Boonword released his tight stance, bending down to grab the stack of papers and lift them up. "Sir, here are those papers you called about," he replied, hoping not to sound too much like a pencil-pusher. He tried his best to make the sergeant know he was destined for greater things than paper delivery.  
  
"Excellent. Thank you, Private Boonword," the sergeant replied. "Did you check up on that ship like I'd asked?"  
  
"Yes, sir. It left almost ten minutes ago with part of its cargo intact. Apparently, one of the containers had been removed from the plug, but the other two duplicates remain."  
  
"Removed? That's strange."  
  
"It may have just gotten dislodged, sir. Apparently, those containers have a tendency to do that."  
  
"You might be right, private. Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome, sir. The expected weight of the cargo, however, is about three hundred pounds heavier."  
  
A quizzical look appeared on the sergeant's face. "Three hundred pounds heavier? That's strange."  
  
"Very strange, sir, but not to worry. We'll find out in a few hours. It's probably just a miscalculation the physics department did when trying to evaluate the weight versus propulsion formulae. You'll be sure to greet the cargo on site, anyway. Right, sir?"  
  
"True enough. Thank you again, private. You are dismissed." Whatever that cargo was must have been pretty important, Boonword remarked; the sergeant was making a huge deal about having it secured as soon as the ship landed.  
  
"Yes, sir," he said and snapped to a quick salute, hoping it was impressive enough to perhaps help him toward a promotion to more active duty.  
  
The sergeant saluted back and said, "You are dismissed, private. Please close the door on the way out."  
  
Boonword proceeded to exit the office, closing the sergeant's door behind him. He noticed the nice, brass, emblazoned nameplate on the door, dreaming of a day when he could have his name on a plaque adorning his office door. The door's nameplate read 'Master Sergeant Edwin Chesholm', but would sound so much better with his name.  
  


**THE END**  
  
For more fanfics of the same caliber, visit http://altmarvel.cjb.net!  
  



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